A Farmer's Daughter from Argyll
by RHRam
Summary: The story of Elsie Hughes' life. It begins in the spring of 1867 on a farm in the Argyll region of Scotland, and concludes in a small town in North Yorkshire, England shortly after the end of the Second World War. I'm going to give this story a T rating for now, but the rating will likely change to M in later chapters. Please R
1. Sheep's Head Stew

Author's note: I've wanted to write this story for a long time. It begins in the spring of 1867 on a farm in the Argyll region of Scotland, and concludes in a small town in North Yorkshire, England shortly after the end of the Second World War. I'm going to give this story a T rating for now, but the rating will likely change to M in later chapters.

I don't own a single one of the characters from _Downton Abbey_. Also, I'm not a historian, and I don't have the time (or indeed, the willpower) to do extensive research on life as it was, and events taking place between the Victorian and post-WWII eras in the United Kingdom. I have done some research to help me put together Elsie's story; but please forgive any historical inaccuracies you might encounter. Thank you!

_On the morning of the 26th of September 1945, my eighty-third birthday, I stood in the kitchen of the little whitewashed cottage that had been my home for the last nineteen years, and gazed out the old diamond-pane windows at the torrets of rain coming down on the front garden. From time to time, a great gust of wind blew, flattening the overgrown crowns of the elms in the hedgerow at the far end of the garden._

_The wind howled and sighed in turn and sent leaves and twigs from the hedgerow flying over the piece of mossy turf the cottage sat on. A small branch from a nearby oak came crashing down onto the hedgerow. Lost in thought, I watched dispassionately as a robin burst from the sodden elms with a disgruntled squawk, disturbed by what had fallen right on top of him; and in my sorry contemplation, I almost missed the girl who suddenly appeared at the garden gate, smiling under the protection of a black umbrella, cradling a bright bouquet of flowers wrapped in newspaper in one arm while she fiddled with the gate's latch, which was in dire need of oiling, and as hard to budge as the fingers of a corpse._

_At once I put the kettle on for tea and went to open the door for my young friend, whom I was quite delighted to see. ''Sybille, how nice of you to drop by!'' I exclaimed as the girl leaned back over the threshold to shake the heavy raindrops from her umbrella._

_''These are for you! Happy birthday, Mrs Carson.'' Sybille put the umbrella in front of the door to dry, and handed me the damp, sprawling bundle of cornflowers, asters, daisies, and dahlias supplemented here and there with sprigs of leaves._

_''Oh!'' I drew the girl in for a warm embrace. ''These are absolutely beautiful, Sybille. I thank you. Please, come in and have a cup of tea!''_

_Sybille hung her coat up on a hook, kicked off her shoes and left them with her umbrella before following me into the kitchen. ''I brought something else for you, too,'' she said, reaching into her coat pocket for a jar of lovely amber-pink stuff her mother had kindly allowed her to take from amongst the rations in their pantry. ''Crabapple jelly.'' She placed the jar on the kitchen table, where I was laying the table for tea, my spirits greatly improved by Sybille's unexpected visit. I put the bouquet of flowers in a many-faceted brown glass vase on a window sill in the kitchen, where it looked very pretty._

_''Thank you for the jelly,'' I intoned sincerely. ''Now we have something sweet to have with our tea. You must thank your mother for me. Please, do sit...'' _

Chapter One: Sheep's Head Stew

Even in late spring, when the fields on either side of the farm were green and edged with banks of snowdrops and the forest brightened by innumerable daffodils, the part of the woods where the lime kilns were was a dismal, haunted place. To make quicklime in those days, limestone had to be crushed and transported to the great kilns, where it was tossed by the shovelful down the blackened brick shafts and then carefully spread by a man wielding a rake in a layer of precise consistency; next came several shovels of locally mined coal, which were spread into an even layer over the limestone, and then more limestone, and so on, until a total of thirty layers of limestone and coal had accumulated in the kilns.

This was back-breaking work that took long to complete. Francis Hughes and his brother, Alfred, along with his brothers-in-law Edward and Arthur, began shoveling the limestone and coal into the kilns early in the day. The men were obliged to work at a relatively slow pace, because it wouldn't do to strain their muscles early in the game, and also because it was essensial to count in the correct number of shovelfuls of material that it took to make each layer in the bottom of the kilns. By evening, less than half of the kiln the Hughes and Baxters were shoveling into was filled; a team of men from a neighbouring farm had worked at filling their kiln just as long, and had made about as much progress.

The men worked until it was too dark to see; then they continued to work by the rich yellow light of lanterns hung up on wooden posts that ringed the kilns for that purpose. There was no moon that night. A crawling breeze, heavy with moisture, made its way over the mouths of the kilns. Francis felt the breeze drag across the back of his neck like fingertips as he shovelled yet another layer of pale limestone into the kiln. He had been working for over twenty hours. Both kilns were nearly full. When it was finally time to light the kilns, Francis and the men of his family would be free to go home. The rest of the men would stay to watch the kilns throughout the night. And on the following night, it would be Francis' and Aflred's and Edward's and Arthur's turn to watch the kilns, which required close attention for every hour of three days and three nights once they started burning.

Though it was close to midnight, Jeanette Hughes stood at the massive oak table in the centre of the lime plaster-walled kitchen, cleaning a sheep's head in the usual way and hummed a tune under her breath. When the head was as clean as it was going to get, she put it into a deep pot waiting on the hot range and poured water over the head until it was just covered. She chopped winter vegetables and added them to the pot with dried thyme and flour to thicken the broth. When the stew came to a boil, she gave it a stir with a wooden spoon and then wiped the table, and the chairs surrounding it, with a wet towel. No doubt the men would want a clean place to eat upon their return.

In the opposite room, Elisabeth, the youngest of Jeanette's sisters, had finished sweeping the floor. ''Do you need some light there?'' she called, oil lamp in hand, perhaps a bit too loudly.

''Hush!'' Jeanette said. ''You'll wake Elsie! No, I don't need any more light, you may put that lamp out...'' She went to take the lamp from Elisabeth, who had gone over to the narrow brass bed in the corner of the room to gaze lovingly at the little girl who had fallen asleep there some hours earlier. Elsie was five and a half years old, and tall for her age; her bare feet, long and skinny as those of a hare, stuck out from underneath the heavy tartan shawl Jeanette had draped over her. The child's curling, light brown hair lay in a fan over the pillow she rested on, partly obscuring the funny, delicate little face that Jeanette was so proud of. Elsie seemed a tiny female replica of her father. She inherited her height and almost elvin features from his side of the family; even her eyes, which were as blue as forget-me-nots in the shade and made more lovely by their long dark lashes, were Francis' own.

''I didn't wake her, Jeanette,'' Elisabeth said quietly. ''The sweet wee bairn. Very soon you'll be having another, and may she be every bit as lovely!''

''She?'' Jeanette ran a hand across her burgeoning belly and winced at the sharp kick of the baby within. ''I hope this one is a boy, and so should you. Our family has far too many women. We'll need boys to help work the farm as my husband and our brothers grow old!''

Elisabeth thought for a moment. ''Rachel has given us Joseph.''

''That's true. But one boy can't manage all the work there is to be done on a farm this size. Besides, I've already got one daughter, and I would like a little boy.''

Elisabeth raised her eyebrows and said gaily, ''God willing, it's a boy, then, for your sake. But I have a feeling that our Elsie will have a sister yowling in her cradle before the month is out. Come have a cup of tea with me, Jeanette. There's no more work to be done, and I'm so weary that I'll be asleep with over there Elsie before I know it.''

The women sat down at the table with their cups of tea as the clock struck twelve, expecting to see the far-off glow of the lanterns Francis and their brothers carried to appear outside the large kitchen windows at any moment. The pot of sheep's head stew simmered gently on the range; it would undoubtedly taste very good to three men who had spent the day doing some of their hardest work as farmers. Jeanette guessed that they had enjoyed their last meal around noon.

''Thank God we're done for tonight,'' Alfred yawned as the men neared the old stone farmhouse. Francis and Arthur murmured in agreement. Their lanterns swung this way and that as they trudged wearily over the uneven ground. The sky was very black above them, causing the stars to shine all the brighter. Francis loved looking at the stars on clear nights. At last the farmhouse came into view, and Francis took an especially bright star winking imperceptibly over the roof of his home to be a good sign. Perhaps this year, 1867, would be a good year.

The previous year had brought his family a great deal of misfortune, beginning with a spring and summer that proved to be unusually cold and wet. The endless bad weather made it impossible to harvest hay. Much of it rotted in the fields, so the livestock hadn't had quite enough to eat the following winter. Elsie had been so ill with a wasting fever that no one could be sure if she would live to see her fifth birthday. Of course the doctor had to be called, and his services, as well as the medicines he perscribed, were costly indeed. Last but not least, one of Francis' horses went lame and couldn't be made to work during the wheat harvest, when a horse was most useful.

Through the kitchen windows a short distance away, Francis could see his wife laying the table with the everyday bone china that had belonged to his mother. Her sister, who would be living with them until she was old enough to marry, stood facing the range. She must have said something comical, because Jeanette threw her head back in inaudible laughter. A fine trail of smoke floated up from the kitchen chimney. Francis couldn't wait to get inside and sit down for a very late dinner with his family surrounding him.

''Good evening, my dear,'' Jeanette said as she met him at the door. She took one of his large, calloused hands between her own small ones, only a little less roughened, and smiled into his face. As always, Francis was struck by her beauty. Jeanette wore her straight chestnut blonde hair smoothed over her ears and coiled in a shining bun at the nape of her neck secured with a pair of tortoiseshell combs. Her eyes, dark as sloes, sparkled charmingly. Francis raised Jeanette's hand to his lips and held it there for a moment, until she giggled like a girl.

Francis nodded a greeting to his sister-in-law, who was bringing a steaming pot of stew to the table. She nodded in return. He and Jeanette had been married for six years, and Elisabeth had always shared their house. But she and Francis rarely spoke to one another. In fact, she nearly avoided him. Francis didn't like to think that Elisabeth was still shy of him, after all these years; perhaps it was something else? Elisabeth was a strong lass, and industrious! She pulled her weight on the farm, there was no doubt about that, and as the time for Jeanette to give birth drew ever nigh, Elisabeth took on extra tasks in and around the house without being asked. Francis wondered if Elisabeth was aware of her value on the farm. She bustled around the place like a maid hired on trial. Did she fear that Francis and Jeanette would force her off the farm and into a life of servitude amongst strangers if she didn't fairly outwork the both of them?

Francis decided to discuss this thing with Jeanette later. Now, he was weary and felt half-starved. He sank gratefully onto one of the high-backed wooden chairs at the table, and let his wife serve him a large plate of dinner. Arthur spoke a hasty blessing over the food before the men tucked in. There was plenty of stew and new bread to go around. Jeanette and Elisabeth didn't eat, but remained standing attentively in the warmth of the range. Elisabeth held a pitcher of cow's milk, and kept topping up the men's mugs as soon as they were half-empty. Francis drained his mug and held it out to Elisabeth, meaning to look her straight in the eye as she poured out more milk. But Elisabeth seemed to be staring at her feet.

It was very late. Jeanette had managed to move Elsie from the brass bed to her own small rope bed across the room without waking her; Francis had quickly washed and changed for the night and lay on the brass bed with his wife. ''You didn't have to stay awake for me, Jeanette,'' Francis admonished gently after Alfred and Arthur had gone home and Elisabeth disappeared to her attic bedroom without bidding anyone good-night, as was her habit. ''Not when you must rise so but a few hours from now. Why don't you rest for a while in the morning?'' He caressed Jeanette's thin shoulders. ''Ask Elisabeth to do your first chores of the morning. I'm sure she'd be happy to. Your sister looks after you so well.''

Jeanette chuckled softly. ''Aye, that she does. She looks after us all well. But I don't want to take advantage of Elisabeth. The child isn't due for another few weeks. There's plenty to do before the birth, and i'm sure I can do it all.''

''But don't overwork yourself, Jeanette.''

''I will not. I promise.''

''Was Elsie a good girl today?''

''Our Elsie was a good and obedient girl, as she always is. She was a great help with the washing. I had gotten a spot of ink on the cuff of my best blouse. And before I could do anything about it, Elsie said 'Mam, did you know there's nothing better to take ink out of a blouse than milk?' She was off like a shot to find a little milk to soak the spot in!''

Francis said nothing, but he was clearly pleased as his daughter's cleverness. ''And how does the little one?'' he ventured, tentatively touching Jeanette's belly, which felt hard as a stone. Jeanette made a face. ''He kicks and rolls constantly. Sometimes I feel a pain, but I don't think he'll be born just yet.''

''What should we call this one, if it's a son?''

''Oh, I don't know. Should we follow tradition and call him James? After your father?''

''James Hughes has quite a nice ring. And if it's a daughter?''

''I'm not sure. Perhaps we could name her after another one of my sisters.''

''I suppose that leaves us Maryann, Alice, or Rachel.''

''I suppose it does.'' Jeanette said dreamily.

''I like Rachel,'' Francis said. But Jeanette was asleep and didn't hear him. Though not a sentimental man, Francis was suddenly overcome with emotion. He kissed his wife tenderly on the temple. ''Good night,'' he said, eyes burning with unshed tears. Before sleeping he said a fervent prayer for the safe delivery of his second child, and for the health of his wife; for the health of his little girl; and for the continued soundness and prosperity of the farm he was master of.

Elisabeth Mary Hughes, called Elsie, began her days with the rest of the household well before sunrise. She was expected to wash her face, dress, and venture into the twilit farm yard, holding a lightweight tin lantern in front of her to see by as she tended to the primary needs of the four Shire horses, six Tamworth pigs, eight chickens, two turkeys, two sheepdogs, three mousers, five ducks, two red Dexter cows, and twenty-six Shropshire sheep that constituted their farm. Elsie was proud of her father's farm. She likened it to a great machine like the steam-powered thresher she had seen her father and uncles work during harvest time, in which people and animals interacted much like cogwheels, each one going about the jobs required of them with as little fuss as possible in order to keep the farm operating smoothly. But Elsie had never voiced this way of thinking to anyone, not even her aunt Elisabeth, with whom she was as thick as thieves. She didn't want to be laughed at or called ''odd''.

At the age of five, Elsie had the ability to understand and reason as well as many adults. She was a quiet, self-possessed creature like her mother; and along with his looks, had inherited her father's canniness and way with livestock.

Of all the beasts on the farm, the mousers were Elsie's favourites, and she often sought one out to pet and fuss over when she had a free moment. She had given a name to each of the cats as soon as the idea occurred to her. The black and white female was called Hortensia. The grey tabby was known as Alice. And the heavy, large-boned tom with the rusty eyes and dun-coloured coat as dense as a sheep's fleece was Oliver. He was the least friendly of the cats, and only allowed Elsie to stroke his enormous head if she had scraps to give him.

When Elsie was no more than three, Oliver took it upon himself to teach her an important lesson. Elsie had been standing beside her mother, clinging to her voluminous skirts with a grubby hand while Jeanette hurried with some chore, when she spied the tom sitting placidly in the sun near the chicken house, tail twitching expectantly. Elsie thought he had been watching her. She let go of her mother's skirts and walked purposefully towards the great yellow beastie. She began to pet the cat all over with both hands, wanting to explore every inch of the soft fur. For a few moments, Oliver purred and butted Elsie's stomach with such force that she took a step back. Oliver leaned into Elsie again, making a noise that was a cross between a bird squawking and a bee thrumming. Thus encouraged, the child reached towards the cat, and was sorely disappointed when he turned on his heels and sped off a little ways, stopped abruptly, then affixed Elsie with the same placid expression as before. Elsie crept up to the cat and placed her little arms around him. Oliver purred and twitched his tail some more. Perhaps he didn't expect Elsie to suddenly hoist the upper part of his body into the air, because the next thing Elsie knew, Oliver was hissing and spitting and battering her with his large muddy paws. The attack must have only lasted seconds, but to Elsie, it felt like an eternity. It left her initially in pain from a long threadlike scratch on her cheek, and several more decorating her hands and wrists; but then Elsie felt deep contrition. She realised that she had known, by instinct, that the cat hadn't wanted her to pick him up. But she did it anyway, because her will was stronger than the cat's. And look what had happened. The scratch on her cheek bled; that was the first time Elsie could remember bleeding, the first time she even knew that she could bleed. From that day on, Elsie and Oliver gave one another a wide berth. They feared one another until one day a full year later, when Oliver surprised Elsie by coming out of nowhere and rubbing himself against her legs as she exited the chicken house with an empty feed basket. Elsie accepted the rubbing as Oliver's apology, though she had been in the wrong. Did the cat know no better? Elsie reciprocated by saving scraps for Oliver in a chipped saucer and placing it by the chicken house, where Oliver liked to doze, having learned to respect the wishes of other creatures, or pay the price.

Despite her young age, Elsie had enough sense to surmise that not all creatures might be as forgiving of trespasses as Oliver was.

Carrying feed and water to all the livestock took Elsie the better part of two hours. It was a quite a job for such a little girl. Elsie had been taught to scatter grain to the poultry as a toddler, but her father had only recently deemed her old enough to go near the murky, pungent-smelling stalls in which the docile, gigantic dappled Shire horses were kept to supply them with their meals of hay and mangelwurzels. By the time Elsie had this task out of the way, she felt knackered and almost powerfully hungry. It was time to return to the farmhouse, where Jeanette and Elisabeth had set a vat of porridge to thicken on the range.

''Good morning,'' Elsie said, half out of breath, as she settled into her customary place between Elisabeth and her father at the kitchen table, which was laid for breakfast.

''Good morning, Elsie,'' Francis said brightly, ruffling his daughter's unkept hair. Elsie perked at the small unanticipated show of affection from the father she saw markedly little of. A farmer was a busy man, and Francis seldom had time to spend alongside his daughter. Elsie belonged with the women of the family, learning what women's work on a farm was all about; had she been born a member of the opposite sex, Francis would have undoubtedly found time to get to know her better.

Francis knew next to nothing about children. A man enjoyed himself begetting them, then left them in their mothers' care until they were of an age to be assigned certain responsibilities on the farm. Francis had been suitably torn-faced when his wife had given birth to a girl. No one could blame him. After all, a son was what he needed to one day help with the hardest parts of the farm work. Francis did not exactly love Elsie; he was fond of the child, and valued her cleverness and obedience, traits always welcomed in a farm wife.

Jeanette made her way around the table, ladling porridge into plates and pouring milk and tea for her family before serving herself. Everyone bowed their heads as Francis said grace, and Elsie was pleased to see that Jeanette had added a good quantity of dried currants to the oats.

Breakfast was consumed quickly, leaving little time for chat about the work or weather the day was predicted to bring; Francis intended to meet his brother with the horses and plough a newly clearned piece of land they wanted to sow with wheat, and get plenty more work done besides. In the early afternoon, Francis would come home and rest undisturbed until nightfall, when he, Alfred, Edward, and Arthur went to see how things were coming along at the lime kilns in the forest. There, the men would spend the night awake every hour near the great smoking mouths of the kilns, which were set to burn for the next two days, producing the tons of quicklime needed to ferilise the fields of the few farms in the area.

Elsie helped her mother and aunt clear away the breakfast dishes, which were left to soak in a sawed-off barrel. Then Jeanette declared that now the sun was well up and since it was a warm day, they must open every window in the house to air the rooms, scrub the grime from the stone floors, and disinfect the house against bedbugs.

''And when all that is done,'' Jeanette continued, ''We may as well start mangling the last of the wet bed linens in the laundry room until it's time to prepare dinner...'' The woman made as if to say something else, then grimaced at a sudden sharp pain in her lower back.

Elisabeth was immediatley at Jeanette's side. ''Are you all right?'' she asked in alarm. ''Is it the babe coming?''

''No,'' Jeanette said after a few moments of uneasy silence. ''No, I don't think today's the day.''

''Why don't you lie down?''

''Don't go worrying yourself about me, Elisabeth.'' Jeanette smiled comfortingly and tucked a dark strand of hair behind her sister's ear. But all the colour seemed to have drained from her face. ''Nor you, Elsie.''

Elsie realised that she must have been standing there with her mouth hanging open like a simpleton. Feeling a bit embarrassed, she quickly shut her mouth, swallowed hard, and asked in her smallest voice, ''When will the baby come, Mam?'' Elsie had never actually been told that her mother was going to have a baby, but somehow she wasn't surprised. The birth of a child seemed to be something grown-ups anticipated with hope and trepidation, but rarely spoke of.

''Soon, my dear Elsie,'' was all Jeanette said to answer her daughter's question. ''Soon. Now, look at all the time we've wasted just standing here, let's get to work!''

Elisabeth giggled. ''Let me fix your hair before we get started, Elsie. It looks like the top of a clamp!'' She found her boar's-bristle brush and began to pull it through Elsie's long, fine hair while Jeanette poured turpentine into a bucket and added a double handful of salt to make a cleaning solution that would rid the house of bedbugs. Elisabeth braided her niece's hair down her back and tied it at the end with a strip of bright red wool.

''There,'' she said, patting the braid. ''That's pretty.'' She helped Elsie go around the house and remove the rag rugs from the floors. They carried the rugs outside one by one, shook them free of dust, then draped them over a low stone wall to air. Jeanette stripped the beds and propped the mattresses against the wall so she could carefully scrub the bed frames with the solution of turpentine and salt. Elsie and Elisabeth took the old bed linens to the laundry room. Elsie began to sweep the floor while Elisabeth climbed the stairs to the attic she slept in to strip her own bed and carry the straw-filled mattress downstairs. Elisabeth took over sweeping the floor, and Elsie ran to fill a bucket with water to wash the floors with.

Elsie had often heard her mother say that many hands make light work, and knew it to be the truth. The farmhouse was not small, but two industrious women and a child who wasn't perturbed by hard work managed to clean it from top to bottom in only a few hours. By the time they finished with the house, Elsie had to feed the livestock again, with the exception of the horses, which were still off in the new field with her father and uncle. Jeanette and Elisabeth went ahead with the laundry, and soon enough it was time to make dinner.

The Hughes family subsisted almost entirely on porridge, bread, the potatoes and cabbages they cultivated, apples, sloes and bilberries gleaned in the summer, and mutton from their own Shropshires. An abundance of lambs had been born that spring. Eighteen! After the misfortunes and expenses of the previous year, things finally seemed to be looking up. They were no longer in danger of financial ruin. Nightmares of ending up in the workhouse were a thing of the past. Francis sold a pair of fine lambs to pay off the debt he owed the doctor for his time and trouble when Elsie was so ill last summer. He slaughtered enough of the older sheep to keep his family in meat until harvest time, and the money he got for their fleeces paid for a new pair of boots for Elsie and dress material for Jeanette and Elisabeth.

Jeanette had been preparing another sheep's head stew for her husband to eat his fill of before he set off for a night at the lime kilns. Jeanette showed Elsie how to wash and dry the sheep's head and hold it over an open flame to singe off all the hair. She let Elsie scrub the blackened head and wash it a second time in cold water. With a mallet and cleaver, Jeanette split the head cleanly in two, and extracted the brains with her fingers. She put the brains aside, intending to put them in the stew a minute or so before it was ready to eat. As ever before, she put the sheep's head into a deep pot on the range with winter vegetables and herbs and covered it with water to boil.

Francis had woken from his rest a short time ago. He had slept very well, and expected no trouble in staying awake through the night. He felt secure, content – even happy – as he sat with his copy of _The Book of the Farm_ open upon his knee, though he had stopped reading. Francis regarded the tidy state of the house approvingly. He could hear Jeanette teaching Elsie a few things about cookery in the kitchen. Elisabeth was in the parlour, sewing on baby clothes. He and Alfred had gotten the new field ploughed and sown with wheat, a fine accomplishment, for it meant that they might have surplus grain for the cattle and horses this winter to make up for their lack of fodder the winter before.

Presently Elsie appeared beside him. ''Supper's ready, Da,'' she said shyly, and led him to the table, where another good meal of sheep's head stew, freshly-baked bread, and a pitcher of last year's cider awaited them.

Jeanette lingered in the doorway with her husband a few moments before he had to go. The night was chill and damp, and Francis was wearing the new coat of dark green wool with a burgundy broadcloth lining that Jeanette had recently finished sewing him. Beaming with pride, Jeanette reached up to straighten Francis' collar and the spotted handkerchief knotted at his throat. ''Be well tonight,'' she whispered.

''You, too,'' Francis replied, looking deeply into the woman's dark eyes. He turned to leave, lantern in hand; then, as an after-thought, be turned back, took Jeanette's face in his hands, and drew her towards him for a lengthy kiss.

''You make me a very fortunate man,'' Francis said gruffly, tipping his hat. And with that he was gone. Jeanette remained at the door and watched Francis saunter off into the darkness until she could no longer make out the back of his green coat.

...That was to be the last time Jeanette saw her husband alive. Years later, on her deathbed, surrounded by her four sisters, Jeanette would tell the story of how she had wakened suddenly in the darkest hour of the night, and lay in bed with her heart pounding as the front door swung open with a resounding creak and Francis stood in the doorway, stock-still and staring straight ahead of him.

''Francis, how are you home so early?'' Jeanette asked him, becoming aware of the strange, opressive atmosphere that filled the house. Francis never answered her; he was _gone_, just like that, having faded into the shadows before Jeanette's eyes.

Jeanette felt the blood drain from her face. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had just seen her husband's fetch. It had not been a dream. The oppresive atmosphere gradually lessened until the house seemed normal again, but Jeanette was reeling in shock. Her first impulse was to hide beneath her quilts like a child; then she was bitterly ashamed of herself for thinking like that. With trembling hands, Jeanette struck a match to light the candle by her bed. She looked sadly at Elsie, who had slept beside her that night, and waited for the sun to come up.

The woods were aglow with lantern light, and veiled in a thick, acrid smoke that hung low over the hell-bright coals within the kiln shafts. The smoke filled the mouths of Francis and Alfred with a foul taste as they panted behind the wet cloth masks they wore as protection against the poisonous vapours. Several yards below, Edward and Arthur stoked the kiln they had been assigned for the night, working to keep the fire burning at a certain height and constant temperature.

This business of making quicklime was the only job a farmer must do that Francis could say he honestly hated. It was tiresome, thirsty work that ruined the health of some men, who died coughing up black blood after years of standing around the mouths of the kiln shafts or feeding the fires below, breathing the noxious fumes into their lungs.

Francis had left his coat in a small tent housing buckets of drinking water that was set up a suitable distance from the kilns, so the water wouldn't become bitter with smoke. He felt hot and cold by turns. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his back, tickling uncomfortably and causing him to shiver. He fairly dreaded the moment when it would be his turn to stoke the kilns alongside Alfred, not only because of the fearsome flurries of sparks that spilled forth at unpredictable intervals and seemed to bore into his hands even through the thick leather gloves he wore, or the throbbing pain that would be left in his shoulders and back for days to come; but because he doubted Alfred would be willing to work as hard as he.

Laziness was Alfred Hughes' only vice. He, the son of a farmer, should have known the importance of getting a job done right. But for as far back as Francis could remember, his brother had been one to leave chores unfinished, and be careless in his treatment of the livestock; and when it was time to make quicklime for the fields, Alfred never shovelled quite as much coal and limestone as his brothers, or delivered enough fuel to satisfy the kilns. Instead, he took a great many breaks in the work, running off to have a drink of water every other minute. When their father was still alive, he had beaten Alfred savagely with a walking cane for his apathy. But the beatings had done little to improve Alfred's work ethic.

Tonight, Francis resolved to eye his brother like a falcon and put up with none of his nonsense. Upon their father's death, they had become co-owners of the farm, which in its heyday had been large and of reasonable affluence, holding twice as many sheep and several more cows, as it mostly functioned as a dairy farm. But all good things must come to an end: four consecutive years of too much rain laid waste to the crops and forced Francis' father to sell a quarter of his sheep to keep the remaining beasts in grain. Then both of Francis' parents were fallen upon by phthisis and were dead within months of one another. To pay for the funerals, Francis and Alfred had no choice but to kill or get rid of all but a scattering of the livestock left over from the last auction. At this time, Francis was in his thirtieth year. He and Alfred tried for some time to run the farm on their own; but two men could never do all there was to be done at home and in the fields, and their workload increased after the hired hands had to be let go because there was no money to pay their wages. Soon Francis found himself in want of a wife to help him manage things. He remembered Jeanette Baxter, a distant relative of his mother's who came from a farming family herself, and knew the life. Francis courted her for only a year before she agreed to marry him, a true godsend, for Jeanette made a thrifty and diligent wife who was equally responsible for bringing his father's farm back to some of its former glory. By the time their first child was born, Francis and Jeanette had ceased to scrape by, and lived in average comfort.

Ideally, Alfred would have followed his brother's example and sought a partner of his own. There was a small white house on the farm grounds with a sound thatch roof that would have made a fine place to bring a wife home to. But Alfred chose to occupy that house alone. When Jeanette's father died and Edward took over his farm and sent Elisabeth to live with them, Francis hoped that Alfred would grow fond of the girl and marry her when she was older. But now he doubted that any such thing would come to pass; Elisabeth seemed in no hurry to find a man, preferring to stay close to Jeanette and Elsie, whom she loved dearly.

''Did you see that man over there?'' Alfred remarked, pointing over his shoulder.

''Who?'' Francis replied sharply, casting his eyes the way his brother had pointed. He couldn't see clearly with so much smoke in the air. After straining to make out the figure of whomever Alfred was speaking of, Francis became annoyed at Alfred for distracting him from overlooking the kiln. ''There isn't anyone there!''

''Someone is there. It looks like a beggar. Should we send him on his way?''

Francis knew that beggars often roamed the countryside and liked to camp near the kilns if they were lit, hoping to warm their weary bones and perhaps beg a little bread from those tending them. Francis could see who Alfred was talking about now; a rather emanciated old man wearing several layers of rags which appeared to have been drug through a marsh was curled not a yard away from the opposite edge of the smoking shaft, sleeping or dead.

''We can't leave him so close to the shaft,'' Francis stated. ''What if the fumes muddle his head, and he tumbles down into the flames?'' He had heard of such things happening to beggars.

''You're right. Why don't we go over there and make him move?''

The men came around the shaft, and Alfred called out to the beggar: ''Ho! You! Do you live?''

The beggar lay silent and still. Francis and Alfred waited for the beggar to give some indication that he had heard them, but he never said a word.

''You can't stay here while we work,'' Francis told him. ''We haven't got a thing to give you. Kindly pick yourself up and leave.''

''Not dead, are you?'' Alfred snapped his fingers a couple of times close to the beggar's ear and then nudged hard in the back. No response. ''I think he _is_ dead,'' he said to Francis. ''What a shame.''

Francis agreed that the beggar was dead; he felt stone-cold through his worn rags and didn't seem to be breathing. ''We'll have to find a place to lay the body out, and send for the vicar in the morning to say his last rites.''

''Right. Shall I go down there and tell the others about this? They'll be calling us to stoke the fires soon enough.''

''Go on down,'' Francis said. ''I'll move the old man. He can't weigh much.''

Alfred descended the rough-hewn stone stairs that led to the large furnaces where Edward and Arthur were hard at work. He felt light-headed and almost sick to his stomach; coal smoke always made him feel that way. He took several deep breaths to clear his head, but on the last one something caught in his throat, and Alfred began to cough violently. He couldn't stop coughing for the longest time, and in the end he was left breathless and weak. Edward met him at the bottom of the stairs, concern evident on his face. He hadn't liked the sound of that cough. He handed Alfred a dented tin cup filled to the brim with lukewarm water and made him drink every drop before showing the younger man how to properly fan the furnace to keep the raging fire within from losing too much heat.

''There's a beggar up there by the shaft,'' Alfred rasped, accepting another cup of water and, instead of drinking it, poured it over his head. ''He's dead. Francis is going to lay him out.''

''Pity,'' Arthur muttered, tossing a couple lumps of coal into the furnace.

''Listen, what's that noise?'' Edward said, craning his neck to look upwards. ''Francis,'' he called, ''What's going on up there?''

It was somewhat difficult to hear over the mad crackling of the fire. Edward, Arthur, and Alfred could just make out what sounded for all the world like a scuffle taking place. Someone above them cried out sharply, and another person grunted in pain or exertion.

A man was shouting, ''Help – help – ''

''Alfred, did you say that beggar was dead?'' Edward asked alarmedly, starting up the stairs. Arthur followed him, leaving Alfred to fan the furnace. It was then that Alfred heard the screams. The terrible, terrible screams – and terrible is too small a word for them – that he would remember every rise and fall of for the rest of his life. Alfred became petrified with fear, which gave way to confusion, and then a rush of adrenaline as he dropped his fan and hurried up the stairs to the highest reaches of the kilns, where Arthur had begun to howl like a madman.

''Alfred! Edward! _God in heaven_!'' Arthur's wretched wail attracted the team of hired men who were tending to the other kiln a short distance away. Most of them came running to see what was wrong. Edward and Alfred got up the stairs just in time to see Arthur standing over the beggar, who was laying on the ground in quite a different place than before, clutching a knife in his right hand, which was totally red with blood. There was blood on both of Arthur's hands, and plenty more in great swaths across the front of his rumpled broadcloth shirt. Arthur was in a state of shock. He moved his mouth as if to speak, but could not. He turned helplessly to face Alfred and his brother, and upon seeing their bewildered expressions, began to shake, as the unbelievable thing he had just witnessed slowly sank in.

Edward was the first to find his voice. ''What happened here? Where is Francis?''

Arthur dropped his knife on the ground, where it struck a stone with a metallic sound. He put his arms around himself in an effort to stop shaking, to no avail, and stared out at the gaping mouth of the kiln shaft, from which less smoke was rising.

''What are you louses doing?'' one of the hired men growled. ''You're letting your fires go out! Why? Do you want to ruin the whole lot – ?''

''The beggar leapt on Francis,'' Arthur cried loudly enough for everyone to hear. ''I saw Francis trying to help him up from the ground. He'd been dangerously close to our shaft. _Francis was trying to help him_. But he attacked Francis, and Francis fell...There was nothing I could do. I killed the beggar, because he made Francis fall.''

Then Edward and Alfred, as well as all the other men, understood what had happened. Alfred understood...He had just heard a man screaming, and thought that perhaps the beggar hadn't been dead after all and didn't want to be moved. But the nightmarish screams had belonged to his own brother, who was dead now. Burned alive at the bottom of a lime kiln. He could hardly believe it. No, he couldn't believe it, unless he saw whatever was left of Francis with his own eyes.

Alfred headed for the kiln shaft as the hired men shouted and swore excitedly amongst themselves. A couple of them ran downhill to build up the fires before the kiln lost too much temperature. Whatever terrible thing had just happened, the process by which quicklime was made must not be interrupted. The farmers' fields, and their livelihoods, depended on it. ''Don't go there, lad.'' Alfred heard Edward's voice as if from a million miles away. He stopped at the edge of the kiln and peered down. The smoke cleared unexpectedly with a shift in the wind, and Alfred beheld a shining, blackened form held aloft by dimly glowing coals, vaguely recognizable as a human being. Francis' eyes, seared white by the heat of the coals, bulged from their sockets. His skull was steaked with ash and looked fragile as a quail's egg. His mouth hung open in a silent scream of the worst agony. His clothes had burst into flame immediately upon contact with the coals, and blackened shreds of fabric smouldered in the places where they still clung to the charred corpse.

There was no retrieving Francis from the shaft. The kiln would remain lit, and what little was left of Francis would be consumed by the flames, and in days to come raked with the quicklime over the fields of nearby farms, including his own, to neutralise the acidic soil so wheat and hay would stand a better chance.

To be continued. Please, review and give me some constructive criticism! I love to write, but I'm a total amateur, I don't have the time to edit this chapter as much as it needs, and I realise that this chapter has stiff-sounding dialogue, and several rather weak spots. I just didn't know how to fix them. I would have also liked to conclude this chapter in a better place, but I didn't know how to do that. Hopefully Chapter Two will be a lot better.


	2. Lochgilphead

_Sybille sank gratefully down onto the cushioned wooden chair I brought, and warmed her hands on the steaming cup of tea while I excused myself to build up the fire in the sitting room. When I returned, I busied myself making a plate of little jelly sandwiches, and lay it between us on the table._

_''I am glad that you came to visit me today,'' I said, taking a tiny sip of tea. ''I like company, and it's not often that I get visitors. I'm afraid I no longer have any friends or relatives to call on myself, in Thirsk or Ripon, or in any other place for that matter.''_

_''Were you born in Yorkshire?'' Sybille asked._

_''Heavens, no. I lived for the first eighteen years of my life far north of here, in Argyll...How old are you, Sybille?''_

_''I'm eighteen years old.''_

_''Oh. I thought you were younger. When is your birthday?''_

_Sybille grinned and reached for a jelly sandwich. ''Mrs Carson, it just so happens that today is my birthday.''_

_''What?'' I gasped astonishedly. ''It never is! And your eighteenth!''_

_''That is right.''_

_''My, my. I have never known another person to share my birthday. Happy birthday, dear Sybille.''_

_''Thank you, Mrs Carson.''_

_''Please, you must call me Elsie. There's very few left to call me that...''_

_''Don't you have any family in England...Elsie? If you don't mind my asking?''_

_''I don't mind your asking, dear. I'm afraid the answer is no. I have no one, not even in Scotland. No one that I know of. To think, that I would outlive nearly everyone I knew...Friends, family, neighbours.'' I suddenly felt very sad as I drank my tea. I stared long and hard at the flowers in the vase on the window sill, adrift on the choppy waters of a sea of memories. Sybille gave me a comforting smile, and gently covered my hand with her own. She noticed the slender gold wedding band that shone dimly against my aged skin, set with an opal and two garnets._

_I took Sybille's hand in my own. ''My wedding ring,'' I said with a sigh, turning my hand so that the ring glittered in the flickering incandescent glow of the lamp above our heads. ''I was married to Charles for only ten years. It's sad to marry late in life, because in all likelihood you won't have a long time to share with your spouse. Those ten years I spent as Charles' wife were the happiest years of my life, and they passed as swiftly as ten weeks.'' _

_''When did Mr Carson die?'' Sybille asked hesitantly._

_''In 1936. Right after New Year's Day. He was eighty-two years old.''_

_''I'm very sorry. You must be lonely without him.''_

_''That I am, dear.'' I saw that Sybille had finished her cup of tea, and poured another. ''I miss him every day.'' _

_''Did you never have any children? If you don't mind me asking?''_

Chapter Two: Lochgilphead

Elsie had taken to sleeping in the attic with her aunt Elisabeth in the week since her father's death. For the first few nights, Elisabeth had been willing to share her bed with the little girl; she took comfort in the weight of Elsie's head against her shoulder, and Elsie was glad to have someone to recite her evening prayers with and kiss good-night when Jeanette no longer seemed to want her daughter near. But Elisabeth's bed was too narrow for them to sleep comfortably in, so Elisabeth carried the child's straw-filled mattress upstairs, and made Elsie a nice place to sleep on the floor. Elsie was satisfied with this arrangement. Some nights, Elisabeth even took the trouble to put her own mattress on the floor beside Elsie's so they could converse in whispers before falling asleep.

''You must know that I love you,'' Elisabeth whispered from her mattress one warm, still night at the end of May. She lay propped up on one elbow, staring intently at Elsie. Elsie was surprised to see a tear run down Elisabeth's face. She had never seen her aunt cry before. Elisabeth reached up distractedly to brush the tear away. ''Your mother loves you,'' she continued. ''But she needs time...She's very sad right now. She's not herself. I need you to be a good girl, be quiet, and stay busy around the farm. There's always something to do. Don't speak to Jeanette unless she speaks to you. Let her rest. Nothing can help her now more than rest.''

Elsie said nothing. She regarded her young aunt with a sorrowful expression that nearly broke Elisabeth's heart. Elisabeth gingerly touched the red place on Elsie's cheek where Jeanette had struck her earlier that day for the first time in her life.

Upon learning how her husband had died, Jeanette had fallen into a state of phychosis from which she would never truly recover. She kept to her bed, refusing food and drink, and slipping in and out of a fitful slumber. Her elder sisters, Maryann and Alice, had come to the farm to care for Jeanette, for the baby would be born any time. Rachel would have come, but she was stuck at her husband's farm a few miles away with a sick baby. The sisters took turns trying to persuade Jeanette to at least drink a cup of cider, since she flat-out refused to eat. Carefully, so as not to cause her pain, they combed the tangles from Jeanette's chestnut-blonde hair, and wept over her, though they knew weeping would get them nowhere. Jeanette seemed oblivious to their tears; when she wasn't sleeping, she looked out ahead of her at nothing, said nothing, and made little movement. Until Elsie dared approach her bed, hoping Jeanette would say something to her. Anything. She hadn't heard her mother's voice in many days, and became frightened of never hearing it again. Elsie put her arms around her mother, and Jeanette snapped. She slapped the little girl with such unexpected force that Elsie fell backwards, stunned, with a perfect outline of Jeanette's hand burning her face like a brand. Immediately afterwards, Jeanette sank back onto the bed and turned her attention to the wall.

Elsie, prone on the floor by the bed, was too dazed to make a sound. But Maryann, who had been in the kitchen at the time, and heard the slap, came running to Elsie's rescue, drying her hands on her wide, snow-white apron. She gave a horrified cry when she saw the angry red handprint marring the child's face. Cradling Elsie, she looked at Jeanette and began to scream at her, calling her a stupid cow and the worst of mothers.

''How can you do such a thing to your own bairn?'' Maryann roared.

Elsie began sobbing uncontrollably. Alice and Elisabeth came in from the dairy and goggled in awe at the scene before them.

''What happened?''

Maryann bade Elisabeth take the crying child outside while she spoke to Alice in Jeanette's presence, hoping the woman would hear their conversation and understand what she had done.

''Jeanette struck Elsie. She's gone mad, Alice. It's as though she's lost her will to live.''

''How can she have lost her will to live, with a little girl, a child yet to be born, and a large farm to run?'' Alice asked incredulously.

Maryann wiped her eyes. ''She has lost her mind.''

''Will she never get better?''

''I can't say. If Jeanette survives the birth – and she may not – we have to think what to do about the baby. She won't be able to care for her, the way she's gone.''

''I see. You're right. But how will the baby live, if Jeanette can't even feed it? Children fed on cow's or goat's milk are often sickly.''

''Don't I know it. We'll give the baby to Rachel. She's nursing Charlotte, but I'm sure that given the circumstances, she won't refuse to feed Jeanette's child as well.''

''Yes. That baby is family, after all.''

''Of course.''

With Francis dead and Jeanette no longer able to do her share of chores on the farm, the enormous amount of work there was to be done all over the place overwhelmed Elisabeth and Elsie. Things became easier when Maryann and Alice left their own households, which were smaller and far more easily managed, to help their sister's family make it through the summer. Their brothers Edward and Arthur sent three hired men, whose wages they bore the cost of from his own pockets, over to the Hughes' farm to assist Alfred in the endless toil there was to be done in the fields this time of year. But Alfred was ungrateful for the hired help which would clearly save his family, at least for the time being. He left most of the work to the hirelings and wasted much time in his cottage, unable to face the light of day, let alone his family, whom he always knew he would fail.

Since the farm had fallen into the hands of the Hughes brothers, Francis had called all the shots, prepared to manage even the smallest details of living on the farm and bringing out the best of the livestock, machinery, apple orchard, and fields. Francis cared little for any of it; he disliked back-breaking work, and often wished that he could escape the rolling, green countryside of Argyll to eke out a more effortless living in a shop or factory. Had Francis lived, Alfred could have perhaps done just that, in a few years' time. He had saved money in a jar in his cottage for years with the intent of using it to get away from the hard life of a farmer, to which he seemed bound from birth.

Now, Alfred knew that he could never leave Argyll. He was trapped as trapped could be. His family needed him; Jeanette, Elisabeth, Elsie, and the others were a millstone around his neck. His savings would have to go towards the upkeep of the farm, a physician to cope with Jeanette's insanity, and whatever things Elisabeth and Elsie might require. Alfred became deeply depressed and fell into the habit of exchanging a precious coin from his savings every week or so for a bottle of powerful spirits brewed from mangelwurzels, which he savoured in the privacy of his cottage.

Elsie had been sent to bed following the incident with Jeanette. Elisabeth had accompanied her to the attic bedroom and tucked her into bed.

''Don't leave me, Auntie,'' Elsie pleaded. Elisabeth smiled knowingly and drug her mattress off her narrow brass bed to situate it next to Elsie's sleeping place. Elisabeth lay down beside her niece, and frowned at the state of the child's cheek, which was swollen and red. A handsome bruise would likely appear where Jeanette had struck her in the days to come. Elisabeth could see that Elsie was in pain, inside and out. It was the kind of pain that could only be migitated by love. Elisabeth loved Elsie, and it broke her heart to see the child hurting so.

''I won't leave you,'' Elisabeth promised, running her fingers through Elsie's silky hair. ''I'll never leave you. When you're asleep, I must go down to clean a chicken for supper. Then I'll take the innards out to give your yellow cat. But then I'll come right back to you, and we'll lie together like the best friends we are and have sweet dreams. Tomorrow is a new day. Perhaps better than today was.''

Elsie nodded sleepily. Her cheek throbbed painfully, but Elisabeth's voice lulled her to sleep, and with sleep, the pain left her.

However, Elsie woke late at night from a nightmare in which a banshee with her mother's face was wailing loudly enough to wake the dead. Terrified, she flailed about in the darkness, seeking Elisabeth's warm, comforting body. Elisabeth was nowhere to be found, though her mattress was still right beside Elsie's. Where had she gone?

Elsie nearly screamed. She had wakened from her nightmare, but the banshee continued to keen lustily. No, it was a different sort of lament than the one Elsie had heard in her dreams. This sounded like a baby crying. All of a sudden, Elsie knew what had just taken place, and wasn't sure what to feel. Especially after the savage blow Jeanette had dealt her.

The child saw the light of a candle against the wall of the staircase, and bolt upright in bed. ''Elisabeth?'' she called hopefully.

It was Elisabeth, and she was smiling brightly enough to rival the flickering candle flame that she shielded with her hand. ''When did you wake up, my dear?'' She put the candle on a chest of drawers and hugged Elsie close. ''You have a bonnie wee sister! She's small as a kitten, but strong. Hear how she cries!'' As she spoke, someone was shushing the newborn downstairs, to no avail.

''Can I see her?'' Elsie asked, eyes round as saucers.

Elisabeth thought for a moment. ''Yes,'' she said. ''Wait here, we don't want you downstairs yet.''

She took the candle with her, because it was very dark, and made her way downstairs. Elsie heard her aunts speaking in hushed voices. The baby had quietened down somewhat. After a few moments, Elisabeth returned, cradling a bundle that was actually larger than a kitten, but mewling like one. Alice followed her younger sister up the stairs with an oil lamp to provide significantly more light for Elsie to see the baby with a candle. She carefully set the lamp on the chest of drawers, and went back downstairs to help Maryann burn the roll of bloody sheets behind the pigsty before Elsie could glimpse something of the business of birth.

Elsie gasped as Elisabeth placed the bundle in her waiting arms. The baby was scarcely an hour old; in the light of the oil lamp, Elsie could see that her skin was bright red, her tiny, puckered face slightly bruised, and the crown of the head pointed like that of a pixie. Elsie would have liked to see what colour her new sister's eyes were, but they were screwed shut, the silvery brows furrowed together as if the baby was thinking hard. The baby felt light as a feather in her linen and wool swaddlings; Elsie touched her forehead and cheek with utmost gentleness and was pleased that the baby's skin felt soft as ashes. Elsie examined the baby's hand, and gasped again when the baby grasped her finger with surprising enthusiasm and strength, as though she had found her lifeline.

''I love her,'' Elsie said, surprising herself with the revelation. Her heart beat wildly.

Elisabeth laughed heartily and dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her shift. ''We all love her.''

''Is Mam alright?''

''It looks that way. Your mammy is sleeping now, so we must be very quiet for the rest of tonight, and all of tomorrow.'' She gently took the baby from Elsie and turned down the wick of the oil lamp.

''What's her name?'' Elsie asked as Elisabeth started downstairs.

''We haven't thought of one yet. Now go to sleep; you can see her again in the morning. I'll be back in a moment. Good-night!''

''Good-night.''

Elsie felt so excited that she was sure she would never sleep; the fresh memory of her little sister's face swam before her, and Elsie couldn't wait to hold her again. But by and by, she slept, and so deeply that it seemed she had only been sleeping a second before Elisabeth woke her at sunrise to feed the animals.

Jeanette's sisters were not pleased with her state. It helped that the birth had caused her minimum discomfort; and there didn't seem to be any immediate complications setting in. Jeanette had no fever, and she was passing an ordinary amount of blood, easily absorbed by the clean cloths Maryann packed between her elevated legs. Her milk had set in soon after the birth at the baby's cries; but though Jeanette's breasts responded readily to the needs of the infant, the rest of her did not. When the little girl wanted feeding, one of the sisters had to sit with Jeanette and hold the baby to her breasts, where she sucked greedily while her mother stared in the opposite direction. Jeanette's sisters had prayed that giving birth might wake Jeanette from her delirium. She seemed to pull herself together for a few hours during the birth, though she did not speak, but she had become listless again and turned her head away from the baby when Maryann tried to show it to her. Jeanette wouldn't so much as glance at her baby even when it suckled.

At least Jeanette was taking a little food now; Maryann and Alice breathed a great sigh of relief when they found Elisabeth sitting by Jeanette's bed, feeding her tiny bites of bread soaked in milk with a teaspoon. Jeanette stopped eating after a few bites, but it was more sustenance than she'd had in days. If Elisabeth could get her to eat again later without vomiting it back up, she might not die of hunger.

Alice had sent word to Rachel about the baby; and Rachel replied beeseeching her sisters to continue to hold the baby at her mother's breast for at least one week before sending her to the other farm, in case Jeanette suddenly came to her senses and desired to care for her infant herself. But Jeanette's sisters raised their eyebrows at this; Rachel had not seen the condition Jeanette was in, and could not possibly imagine it. The sisters doubted that Jeanette would develop a desire to care for her child one week hence, or after.

Elsie hurried through her chores, and spent every free moment studying her little sister, who had changed, blossomed even, overnight. Elsie couldn't get enough of the sweet fragrance which clung to her, the delicate whorls of her ears, or the feel of the stripe of tawny hair along her scalp. The infant's eyes were of a murky blue colour, like the twilight sky. She was too young to focus her eyes on anything directly, but the sound of Elsie's voice had the power to soothe. The baby cried often during her first days of life, and no one but Elsie could quieten her, by bending over the wicker basket to whisper into her ears and gently pinching the tiny pink hands between her thumb and forefinger.

Since her father's death, Elsie got the feeling that her world was slowly falling apart, though at the age of five, she wouldn't have described the feeling as such. Elsie was distinctly aware of the melancholy air in the house, bordering at times on despair. The child did not exactly miss her father, for he had been distant and busy, and rarely looked her way. Elsie was most disturbed by her mother's new withdrawn nature. Maryann and Alice had little time for her, and so had it not been for Elisabeth's never ending kindness, she would have felt quite abandoned.

The baby's waking up at night to be fed became a problem, for it required one of Jeanette's sisters to rouse her when she clearly did not want to be roused, and hold the baby to her breast until it fell asleep again, satiated. Jeanette's condition had improved somewhat in the two weeks since her the birth of her second daughter. She still kept to her bed at all times, except when Maryann and Alice lifted her bodily from the blood-stained mattress to make her sit on a chamber pot. But with her sisters' help she was eating bread and porridge and drinking cups of cider and sugared tea. The hollows beneath her eyes became less prominent, but she had no will to speak. Jeanette stopped staring into a void and began to follow her sisters and daughter with her eyes as they moved about her.

As predicted, Jeanette declined to hold her newborn or even look at her. She became agitated whenever the baby cried and gritted her teeth loudly enough for anyone to hear.

''You must feed the child yourself,'' Maryann told Jeanette, her patience wearing dangerously thin. ''The rest of us haven't time to do it; do you think Alice and I can stay on your farm forever, when we have our own places to run?''

But Jeanette didn't seem to understand, or care; when Maryann spoke harshly to her, the younger woman only gave her a last vacant look that caused Maryann to give up. She sent word to Rachel again, inviting her to visit the Hughes farm. Rachel Burns arrived a couple of days later in a horse drawn cart with her ten-year-old son Joseph and baby daughter, Charlotte.

Rachel and her husband, Peter, lived on a small farm near Lochgilphead, not far from the Hughes farm in the grand scheme of things, but Elsie had met them only once when she was almost too young to remember. Rachel was between Jeanette and Elisabeth in age. She had married very young, and had the reputation of being a cold and domineering wife, but a fine mother to Joseph and Charlotte, her only living children. The years had brought Rachel several stillbirths, and now she was prepared to wean Charlotte, who was over a year old, and nurse Jeanette's child instead.

Elsie did not know that Rachel and Peter were visiting the farm with the intention of taking her little sister away. She was pleased to see Joseph, for it wasn't often that she got to play with a child near her own age. The daughters of Maryann and Alice were closer in age to Elisabeth than Elsie, and weren't much interested in her.

Elsie's aunts had gotten the farmhouse spotlessly clean for Rachel's arrival. The area surrounding the house had also been raked clean of debris, the roof on the chicken house repaired, the Shire horses handsomely groomed, and a fat turkey slaughtered for the evening meal, since there were now thirteen people to be fed, counting Jeanette, Alfred, all of the children, and the hired men who would wait for their supper to be brought out to them in the fields.

Rachel and Peter planned to stay at the Hughes farm just overnight and leave the following morning, so Elsie was excused from her chores for the rest of the day to give her time to get to know Joseph.

''Hello, Joe,'' Elsie said shyly when introduced, as if for the first time, to the tall, large-boned boy with a shock of auburn hair peeking from his oversized grey cap.

''Hello, Elsie,'' he replied, taking off his cap and twisting it nervously between his hands. ''Mother said we're to spend the day together. I don't remember your farm. Could you show it to me?''

Elsie smiled. ''Of course I shall.'' Then she jumped at the sound of her sister's cry. Elisabeth had come up behind Elsie with the baby in her arms.

''Good to see you, Joe,'' Elisabeth said over the baby's thin wail.

Elsie held out her arms for the baby. ''Give her to me, I can fix her,'' the child offered helpfully, but Elisabeth shook her head.

''No, dear. You go show Joe the farm. Have fun, play! Lord knows you two get little enough opportunity to play!'' With that, she turned back the way of the farmhouse, cosseting the baby to shush her.

Not knowing where to begin, Elsie led Joseph to the chicken house, where the cats Oliver and Hortensia were crouched underneath. Elsie bent down and made little kissing noises to attract the cats from their hiding place. Hortensia looked interested, but upon seeing Joe, who was a stranger to her, she flattened her ears and ignored them.

''Do you have cats on your farm?'' Elsie asked.

''We do,'' said Joe. ''I like cats. They catch a lot of mice. One of our cats caught a full-grown hare once with hardly a mark on him. Da went out into the yard and pulled the cat off the hare, and brought the hare inside to clean him up for a pie.''

''Good heavens. I would have liked to see that.''

''Does your Da keep bees?''

Elsie frowned and looked at her feet. Joe realised the mistake he'd made, and apologised profusely. ''I didn't mean to remind you, Elsie,'' he said.

''It's all right. No, we don't have bees.''

''My Da keeps bees. We get a lot of beeswax and honey from them. Mother sells most of it in Lochgilphead.''

''Do you help your Da get the honey?''

''I do. He taught me how last year. It's simple; all you do is lift the combs out of the hives, shake off the bees, cut off the wax, and put the combs in an extractor to get the honey out.''

''What's an extractor?''

''It's a new machine that relies on centrifrugal force'' – Joe stumbled over the words he'd heard his father say when explaining how the machine worked – ''to extract honey from combs.''

''Oh. It sounds very interesting,'' Elsie said politely, taking her cousin to the stone pigsty where the Tamworth pigs were kept. The pigs came out to meet the children, hoping they were about to get fed. The air filled with anxious, high-pitched squeals, and Joe made several remarks about the construction and cleanliness of the sty and the apparent health of the Tamworths, sounding like a man his father's age. Elsie spent a long time showing him the horses, the many sheep, the cows, and the ducks by the reed-choked pond, and even the sheepdog. Joe seemed well impressed.

''You'll have a nice wheat crop this year, if the sunny weather holds out,'' he observed, eyeing the fields of unripe grain. Elsie nodded.

Joe loved the Hughes farm, which was twice as large as his father's farm and looked twice as tidy and well-managed. ''When I'm a man,'' Joe declared as he and Elsie strolled through the sprawling apple orchard, ''I'll turn my father's farm into an estate like this.''

''Estate?''

''Yes, that's what you're supposed to call a large farm, isn't it? I'll find a nice woman to marry who will help me do it. We'll have a dairy and make plenty of cheeses to sell. Do you know how to make cheese, Elsie?''

Elsie blushed. ''I'm just learning, Joe.''

''My wife and I will take the horse and cart over to Lochgilphead to sell cheeses, sheep, honey, beeswax, cider, blackberry jam, and jars of chutney,'' Joe went on blissfully. ''We'll be rich. Our farm will be the best in all of Scotland, and it will stay that way for generations.''

''Is that really what you want?'' Elsie asked.

Joe stopped in his tracks. ''Well, of course,'' he said stoutly. ''Isn't that what you yourself would want?''

''I don't know. Suppose there's more to life than farming?''

''Oh, for me there isn't, lassie,'' Joe laughed, once again sounding like a seasoned farmer and not a ten-year-old boy. ''For me there isn't.''

''She's worse off than I'd feared,'' Rachel said to her sisters, her voice trembling with emotion. ''Really, I had no idea, my dears. And she's been this way since Francis burned?''

Alice winced at the way Rachel said _burned_. ''She has. Though she's gotten better. We feared losing her for quite some time. She wouldn't eat a bite for days. I've never heard anyone going for a week without food or drink before.''

''And you're sure she won't come around, even for the child's sake.''

''We're quite sure of it,'' Elisabeth said sadly. She glanced over her shoulder at the wicker basket beside Jeanette's bed, where the baby slept peacefully.

Rachel hoisted little Charlotte further up on her hip. ''Well, I'll take her with me, then. And care for her as good as my own, for as long as she needs it.''

''We thank you,'' Maryann said sincerely.

''What about young Elsie? What's to become of her?''

''I'll take care of Elsie,'' Elisabeth said. ''I can't replace her mother, but...Elsie is very dear to me.''

Alice guffawed. ''What's this talk about you _replacing_ her mother, Lillias?'' Elisabeth's face split in a wide grin upon hearing the pet name that hardly anyone had called her since she was Elsie's age. ''Jeanette's getting better. I like to think that she'll continue to get better, and that things will be back to normal before long.''

''And if things never get back to normal?'' Rachel inquired. ''What if she never comes out of this...hysteria?''

Maryann sighed. ''We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Really, I don't like to dwell on such a horrifying prospect.''

Supper was nearly ready; the front door opened, and Elsie and Joseph came inside the farmhouse, which harboured an almost festive comportment with so many people bustling back and forth, talking in boastful tones, laughing, or whispering conspiratorially. The house was pleasant with the mingled scents of woodsmoke, roasted turkey, freshly-baked bread, and trapped sunlight. Joe left Elsie to sit with his father at the big kitchen table, and Elsie went in search of her little sister, who had been on her mind the whole time she was showing Joe around the farm.

The baby was asleep in her basket, swaddled tightly against drafts. Elsie knelt on the floor beside the basket and half-hoped that her sister would wake and cry, just so she'd have an excuse to take the baby in her arms. Out of the corner of her eye, Elsie saw her aunt Rachel approach, and for some reason, the woman's presence caused the tiny hairs on the back of Elsie's neck to stand on end. Rachel bent down next to her niece and cleared her throat to speak.

''Elsie. I've hardly gotten a chance to speak with you since we came today,'' she said with a thin smile, unsure of how to direct the conversation. ''I haven't seen you in such a long time. Look how tall you've grown. You're the spitting image of your dear father. How have you been getting on without him?''

Elsie stared at her aunt, not knowing how to respond. Her father had been dead less than a month, and she very seldom thought of him. ''I'm doing well, Aunt,'' the girl said after a few moments.

Rachel looked longingly at the sleeping infant. ''Have you thought of a name to give her?''

Elsie shook her head, having never considered naming her sister; weren't mothers supposed to decide what to call their children?

Rachel, unsettled by the befuddled expression on her niece's face, cut to the chase. ''Elsie, my dear, do you know that Peter and I are taking the child away with us tomorrow morning?''

The proclamation hit Elsie like lightning. She was at a loss words. Rachel waited patiently until Elsie said breathlessly, ''Why must you take her away?''

Rachel sighed heavily. ''Because your mother isn't well. She's not able to feed the baby. I can feed her with my Charlotte. It'll just be for a while. When your mammy gets better, I'll send the baby to live with you again.''

''Do you promise, Aunt?'' Elsie's eyes were wide.

''Of course I promise. After all, she's your little sister. I wouldn't dream of taking her away from you forever.''

''How long until Mam is well again?''

''I don't know, lassie,'' Rachel said, looking very sad. ''I don't know.''

Elisabeth called them into supper, and the baby slept throughout the meal. Elsie sat across from Alfred, who was looking a little worse for wear, and smelled bad. His smell reminded Elsie of snow and iron and sweat. Platters of sliced turkey, bread, and boiled vegetables were passed around the table. Elsie ate what she was offered, but hardly tasted the food. Her mouth was dry; Elisabeth had to fill her cup with sweet cider and again. Elsie kept an eye on her sister, waiting for her to waken.

Finally, the baby did wake, and Rachel excused herself from the table to pick the baby up. She sat on the edge of Jeanette's bed where Jeanette slept, opened her blouse, and offered the child her full breast, which it eagerly took.

''Well,'' Maryann said in relief. ''That's sorted.''

Elsie looked pleadingly at Elisabeth, who put an arm around her niece's thin shoulders and whispered, ''So, Rachel's told you about the arrangement. Everything will be fine. Trust me. It's just for a little while.''

Elsie suddenly hated her mother for sleeping all day, for not talking any more, and for not taking care of her baby. If Jeanette had her wits about her, her daughter, who hadn't been in the world three weeks, wouldn't have to be spirited away to another farm in the morning and brought up by an aunt with two children of her own in a smaller, poorer household.

It wasn't fair.

Instead of helping to clear the table after dinner, Elsie went over to Joseph, who was playing with Charlotte in the parlour. Elsie sat down on one the overstuffed horse hair chairs. ''Joe, do you know that my sister is going to live with you for a while?'' she said.

Joseph looked at her in surprise. ''Yes, I know. That's why we came here. She and Charlotte will be sisters.'' Joe didn't see how much that comment genuinely hurt Elsie.

''You'll take care of her, won't you?''

''Of course I'll take care of her. We all will.''

''Good,'' Elsie murmured. She felt tired out. Her arms ached to hold her sister one last time before Joe's parents took her, but for now, Rachel had taken the child into the kitchen and was cradling her in a rather possessive manner while Maryann and Alice tidied up the kitchen and Elisabeth sat coaxing Jeanette to try a bit of roast turkey. Elsie decided not to intrude.

Later that night, as she and Elsie prepared for bed, Elisabeth said, ''Rachel suggested the name Lydia for the baby. What do you think about that?''

''It's a pretty name,'' Elsie replied dully.

Elisabeth sat down next to Elsie on their paired mattresses. ''Elsie, I understand that you're sad. I'm sad, too. But it has to be this way.'' She reached for her boar's-bristle brush, and began to card Elsie's long brown hair, which was damp from a recent washing. ''Such pretty hair you have. Shall I tie your curls up in rags so that you have even more curls in the morning?''

Elsie giggled through the tears that were threatening to escape her eyes. Her aunt retrieved a tangled ball of strips of cloth and set to arranging Elsie's hair in a lot of neat rag-tied bundles all over her head. Then Elisabeth loosened her own hair, which was nearly black and long enough to sit on, and brushed it slowly, singing quietly so that no one but Elsie would hear, and smiling reassuringly at Elsie until the child's eyes closed and she was asleep.

''Jeanette,'' Rachel said the next morning after breakfast. ''Can you hear me? I want you to look at your daughter.'' She held the baby in front of Jeanette, who was awake but unresponsive, eyelids fluttering. ''Peter and I are taking her to our farm to live until you're well enough to look after her.''

Jeanette opened her eyes and seemed to scrutinize her sister. But she said nothing, couldn't be bothered to bid farewell to Lydia.

It was a cool, rainy day. Elisabeth sat with Elsie teaching her how to knit. The child was catching on quickly; she wanted to knit Lydia some warm things to wear when summer was over. She could send the things in a parcel to the post office in Lochgilphead, where Peter or Rachel could pick the parcel up during one of their trips to town.

''Well, then, I suppose it's time for us to go,'' Rachel said. Her husband and children were waiting outside with the horse and cart.

''Elsie, say good-bye to Lydia,'' Elisabeth prodded. But Elsie set her face and didn't want to say anything; if she did, she might start crying and never stop, broken-hearted.

''Come see us some time.'' Rachel walked out the door with Lydia in her arms, and Elsie heard the horses take off. Her mouth twisted and she began to weep silently, soaking her knitting with tears. Maryann and Alice glanced morosely at one another; there was nothing they could do about Elsie. They were going to leave the next day and perhaps send one of their grown daughters to help Elisabeth around the farm in their stead.

Elsie wouldn't see her little sister again for the next three years.

Jeanette made a slow convalescence over several months. By Elsie's sixth birthday in September, Elisabeth and Gladys, Alice's eldest daughter who came to live at the Hughes farm, no longer had to sit with Jeanette and coax her to eat. Jeanette had little appetite; she subsisted on a cup of broth here, a piece of bread there. Meat and potatoes made her ill. Jeanette kept to her bed throughout the autumn, until she rose suddenly from her bed one morning to take tea at the kitchen table with Elisabeth, Gladys, and Elsie.

Elsie felt glad that her mother was at last up and about again. But how Jeanette stank! The woman hadn't washed in months. Elisabeth prepared her sister for a bath while Gladys drug Jeanette's filthy mattress, bedclothes, and shift outside and burned them behind the pigsty. Jeanette was so dirty that one bath turned into three; Elisabeth made Elsie fill buckets at the pump in the yard again and again, warm the water on the range for her to pour over Jeanette, and carry out buckets of dirty water in between. They washed Jeanette in a sawed-off barrel lined with a sheet until she was clean and looked more like her old self. After the bath, Elisabeth put a fresh shift on her sister, and because the day was bitterly cold, wrapped her in a thick shawl and stationed her on a stool in front of the range, where she could dry without catching cold. Elsie watched as Elisabeth combed out her mother's long, fair hair, and was surprised to notice a streak of silver beginning at the right temple, though Jeanette was scarcely past the age of thirty-six.

Elisabeth pinned Jeanette's hair up as she had always worn it, and sat her at the table with another cup of tea. Gladys came back in from burning the mattress and nodded approvingly at Jeanette's tidy appearance.

It was early December, and snowing out. Once the livestock had been fed, there was almost nothing for the women to do for the day except sit inside and busy themselves with small tasks. Elsie practiced her letters while Elisabeth helped Gladys sew a new mattress cover from canvas, which they would have no choice but to stuff with rags and feathers, rather than straw, which made a better mattress.

There was no straw to spare that winter. There had been so much rain towards the end of summer that haymaking was pushed back for one month, and by then, much of it had rotted. Alfred had been forced to part with several sheep buy grain enough to feed the rest of the animals with until spring. Losing so many sheep had discouraged Alfred so that he hid in his cottage and drank the winter days away while Elisabeth and Gladys ran frantically back and forth to complete the man's unfinished chores in addition to their own. Elsie helped around the farm as much as she were able; but she was too small to do bother with such important tasks as trim the hooves of the sheep and check for signs of infection.

Each one of the remaining sheep were as big as Elsie, heavier than Elisabeth or Gladys, and required catching. Trimming the sheeps' hooves was men's work, for men were the only ones strong enough to catch the sheep, wrestle them to the ground, and pare away a part of the hooves with a sharp knife as the beasts bucked and thrashed. It took a pair of men to trim the sheeps' hooves, one to hold the sheep down and the other to wield the knife. A man and woman could do this job, if the man held the sheep.

Elisabeth went into the barn one day with buckets of chopped mangels and straw to feed the nineteen remaining sheep, and noticed that two sheep were standing on their front knees, bleating helplessly. Something was wrong with their hooves. But why should there be something wrong, if Alfred had been caring for the sheep properly? Elisabeth fed all of the sheep before going to Alfred's cottage.

''Alfred,'' she shouted, pounding on the door. ''I need your help with the sheep.''

Alfred didn't answer, though she could hear him moving inside the cottage.

''Alfred!'' she said again. ''I think two of the sheep are somehow sick. Please, won't you come to the barn with me and look?''

''Do it yourself,'' Alfred said thickly. Elisabeth knew he was drunk again. She was furious; she wanted to barge right into his cottage, pour his bottles of spirits out onto the floor, and deliver a hard slap to Alfred's wet mouth. But the door to the cottage was locked.

Elisabeth picked up her skirts, the hems of which were wet with snow, and ran back to the barn. The healthy sheep were munching placidly at their fodder, but the two – no, three – sick sheep couldn't move close enough to the long stone troughs to eat. The sick sheep allowed Elisabeth to come near them; Elisabeth looked at their feet as well as she could manage and saw hooves overgrown in some areas and eaten away by infection in others. The sheeps' glistening pink toes were actually exposed. The infection was very bad, and without Alfred's help, there was no saving them. Elisabeth refused to go back to Alfred's cottage and beg for his help a second time, when she knew he would refuse her. The sheep were his responsibility; Elisabeth knew nothing about sheep other than how and when the feed them.

Elisabeth left the barn and went to find Gladys. After explaining the problem with the sheep, Gladys returned to the barn with her carrying newspapers and a knife. The women slaughtered the three sheep whose hooves were ruined, catching the steaming blood in the bowl reserved for that purpose, and skinned and butchered them right there in the barn. The other sheep took no notice, for they had their faces buried in the troughs.

Elisabeth and Gladys folded the fleeces so their wool would not become bloody, wrapped the raw mutton in the newspapers and carried them to the larder, where they packed the meat with plenty of salt to preserve it. They decided not to tell Alfred that they had slaughtered three of his remaining sheep; if the man woke from his drunken stupor later that day and discovered them missing, he'd see the blood-flecked straw in the sheep pens and know what Elisabeth had been obliged to do. Let him be angry about it. At least there would be meat now to last the family until spring.

But the following day, as Elisabeth entered the barn to feed the sheep, Alfred was waiting for her. He was very drunk. He caught Elisabeth by the waist, causing her to spill the buckets of fodder all over the ground, and threw her hard into the barn's stone wall. Elisabeth cried out in pain, but no one heard her. Alfred dealt her three blows with his fist, one for each of his sheep that she had killed, and then left Elisabeth alone in the barn, trembling in fear and crying.

It would be the first of a string of beatings to come, and not just for Elisabeth.

Gladys was appalled to see Elisabeth return to the farmhouse with blood pouring from her nose and mouth. There was a bruise over her left eye, and the lid had nearly swollen shut. The sleeve of her dress was badly torn, and Gladys could see the scraped and bleeding flesh beneath the ruined fabric. Another bruise spread across Elisabeth's collarbone, and Alfred had punched her so hard in the chest that Elisabeth had great difficulty breathing.

Elsie wept to see her favourite aunt so hurt. She helped Elisabeth up the stairs to the attic and lay down with her on the mattresses, where Elisabeth fell almost at once into a restless sleep. Elsie unpinned her aunt's hair and ran her fingers through it to calm her, as Elisabeth had done to Elsie so many times before.

Gladys wrote a letter to her father, Dougal, about what had happened, and asked him to come to the Hughes farm if he could. Gladys had never liked Alfred, but now she was really afraid of him. Dougal arrived as soon as he received the letter, took one look at the damage Alfred had done to Elisabeth, and broke down the door of his cottage, which was cold in the dead of winter, for Alfred had been too lazy to build a fire, and gave Alfred the beating of his life, threatening to kill him if he didn't man up and do a man's work on the farm.

''If Alfred there won't look after the sheep,'' Dougal told Elisabeth, ''then sell them. Sell every one of them. I can even sell them for you. You don't have enough to feed such a great number of beasts until the days are warm again. And if Alfred says a word about it, let me know, and I'll make him wish he had never been born!''

Fearing for the safety of his daughter on the Hughes farm when a mean drunk was living there, he took Gladys back home with him, but later sent a good serving man from his own farm named Oscar to protect Elisabeth and Elsie and do whatever work Alfred refused.

Oscar remained on the Hughes farm for years, and the farm fared significantly better with him in charge than it had since Alfred had turned his attentions to spirits and dwelling on dreams that would never come true.


	3. Mourning Clothes

_I laughed hoarsely. ''Ask away, Sybille. I don't mind answering any questions you might have. It makes me nothing but happy to speak about Charles. No, we had no children. A real pity, that, and another reason, if you ask me, why it's sad to marry late. Would you like to have children someday, dear?''_

_''I don't know if I want children,'' Sybille answered. ''I haven't thought about it much before.''_

_Sybille had told me of Peter and David, her eight-year-old twin brothers, and of how stupid and bothersome the boys were, always running in and out of the house, shouting, tracking mud into the kitchen, slamming doors, reading her diary, and sometimes even daring to barge into her bedroom when she was getting dressed. Peter and David were almost the only children Sybille knew; none of our neighbours had children, and Sybille's cousins, who were younger than Peter and David, lived in Birmingham. Sybille saw them only once or twice a year._

_''Well,'' I said with a sparkle in my eyes. ''You are young yet. You've plenty of time ahead of you to decide!''_

_''I agree with you, Elsie.'' _

_''But I must say,'' I continued quietly, ''There are still times when I regret never having a family of my own, though doing so would have caused my life to unfold in an entirely different way. Remember, I was head housemaid, and later housekeeper at Downton Abbey. That job gave me immense satisfaction. At least for the first decade or so. I felt satisfied having risen through the ranks and made a good life for myself. I was respected and even envied by the other servants because of my station.''_

_''Well, what stopped you from having a family?'' Sybille asked, genuinely interested. _

_''Servants weren't usually allowed to marry in those days.''_

_We had finished the tea and sandwiches; I transferred the china to the kitchen counter and then led Sybille into the sitting room so we could sit in front of the tiled fireplace and enjoy the warmth and soft crackle of the low flames while we talked. _

_I took a photograph in an oval gilt frame from the mantelshelf and brought it to show Sybille. ''This is Charles and I on our wedding day,'' I explained proudly. ''We were married on 24th of May, 1926.'' _

_''What a lovely picture,'' Sybille said appreciatively, taking in every detail of the couple within the gilt frame. I examined the photograph along with Sybille, though I had long since committed it to memory. I adore that photograph of Charles and I, and count it amongst my most prized possessions. _

_I don't think I have changed a great deal over the years. The sixty-four-year-old bride in the picture smiles in a way that suggests she was trying to keep from laughing. Her hair appears mostly grey underneath the sensible dark hat she wears; at what point did my hair turned white? She stands very close to her husband with one of her gloved hands resting on his arm. My Charles looks dignified in his well-tailored black suit, and unabashedly pleased with himself._

_''We were so happy,'' I sighed. ''It's hard to have him gone. Would you like to see the rest of my photographs, Sybille? There aren't many.''_

_''Yes, please, I'd be delighted.''_

Chapter Three: Mourning Clothes

In the summer of 1870, Elisabeth took the horse and cart into the village near the farm on which she lived with her sister's family, with the intent of purchasing sacks of sugar, salt, and flour, as well as spices, tea, and coffee, and bolts of fabric to sew into clothes for Elsie and herself. Jeanette could have perhaps used a new dress, too, but as the woman rarely left the farmhouse and they were so low on money, Elisabeth decided that Jeanette's dress might wait until her old ones were washed to rags.

After making her purchases and thanking the shopkeeper for helping her carry the heavy bags of dry goods to her cart, Elisabeth went into the tiny post office wedged between the general store and pharmacy, where there should be a letter waiting for her. Nearly every week for the past three years, Elisabeth had received letters from her sister Rachel, who lived near Lochgilphead, concerning the health and development of her youngest niece, who had been sent to live with Rachel's family soon after she was born.

''Good day, Miss Baxter,'' the postman said, recognising Elisabeth. He rummaged in a drawer behind his desk, and presently withdrew a thick yellow envelope, which Elisabeth eagerly took from him. The young woman opened the letter on the spot, since there was no one waiting behind her, and read a few lines. Her heart stopped.

''Anything the matter?'' the postman said, noting the look of horror on Elisabeth's face.

''Yes,'' Elisabeth gasped. ''Something is the matter. I must get home immediately. Thank you.'' She ran out the door, nearly tripping an old woman who was coming into the post office after her.

The return address on the envelope bore her sister's name; but the letter had been written by Peter Burns, her husband. _I am grieved to report_, the letter read, _that on the 11th of July, Rachel died giving birth to our second son, who followed his mother shortly thereafter. With a heavy heart, I must arrange not one, but two funerals. I will visit the your farm in two days' time to restore Lydia Hughes to her closest family. I also mean to bring my son Joseph and daughter Charlotte to stay with you for some time whilst Rachel is committed to the earth. I don't want the children to see their dear mother and new brother dead_.

Elisabeth wept bitterly as she drove the horse home. This was so unexpected; she hadn't even known that Rachel was going to have another baby. Oscar Darrow, a serving man from a farm belong to another one of her sisters, met Elisabeth in the yard as she drove up, and led her horse into the part of the barn where the cart was kept. ''Why the tears?'' Oscar, forever the optimist, asked brightly as he unhitched the massive Shire horse from the cart.

Elisabeth drew a shaky breath. ''My sister Rachel has died.''

''Oh, no,'' Oscar said gravely. ''I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?''

Elisabeth shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes. Oscar handed her his handkerchief, which was clean and neatly pressed.

''Thank you.'' Elisabeth looked up at him gratefully. Oscar was a tall, broad-shouldered man with reddish hair and a proud bearing. He liked to smoke a pipe in the evenings, and often smelled sweetly of tobacco.

Elsie, Elisabeth's eight-year-old niece, came into the barn smiling, but her expression changed when she saw Elisabeth's tears.

''What happened?'' Elsie asked, putting her arms around Elisabeth's waist. Oscar hefted one of the heavy sacks of flour onto one of his broad shoulders and headed towards the larder with it, leaving Elisabeth and Elsie to talk.

Elisabeth took Elsie's hand and began to walk towards the house. ''Do you remember your aunt Rachel?''

''Yes.''

''Well, her husband has written to tell me that she's died. Earlier this month.''

Elsie didn't know what to say. ''Why did she die?''

''She had some trouble bringing a baby into the world,'' Elisabeth said simply.

''What happened to the baby?''

''He died as well.''

''I am very sorry to hear it,'' Elsie said stiffly.

''Rachel's husband wrote that he's bringing his children to stay with us for a little while. He doesn't want them present at their mother's funeral.''

''Because it would be so hard for them?''

''Naturally. I should think that's why. They should be here quite soon. Today, or tomorrow. The letter was sent days ago. It's a wonder they didn't come before now.''

''I shall be glad to see Joe again,'' Elsie mused.

''And your little sister?'' Elisabeth prodded, knowing that was who Elsie had truly meant that she would be glad to see, though she said her cousin's name.

''Yes. I'll be glad to see Lydia. But she won't be glad to see me, because she doesn't even know me.''

Elisabeth clicked her tongue as they stepped through the doorway of the farmhouse and into the kitchen, where Jeanette was boiling a leg of mutton for dinner. ''She knows of you,'' Elisabeth said. ''There's a difference. And that's all that matters. You two will be good friends. She'll be staying with us forever this time,'' she concluded, to answer Elsie's next question.

While Elisabeth went over to Jeanette and explained to her briefly about Rachel, Elsie felt a nervous kind of excitement rise in her chest. Lydia would be coming home; if not today, then tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. It didn't matter when. She was coming home. And staying. Elsie could not imagine what the child might look like. The last time she saw her sister, Lydia had been no more than two or three weeks old. Elisabeth hoped that Lydia had worn the little socks and sweaters she'd knitted for her sometimes, plain garments of brown and grey wool.

Elsie's thoughts drifted to her cousins Joseph and Charlotte, and she furrowed her brow. Joe would be fourteen years old now, practically a man. Charlotte was only five. Elsie didn't remember Charlotte almost all; she was a year older than her sister. Elsie wondered if Charlotte and Lydia had become close during the years they had spent together. She remembered something Joe had mentioned about Charlotte and Lydia being raised as sisters, as she and Lydia should have been.

All in all, Elsie didn't know what to expect of Lydia when she arrived later that week; or if she should indulge in expectations of any kind. Elsie was a patient girl, blessed with a lot of good sense. She reasoned against worrying about how Lydia would think of her when they met; if Elsie was just kind to her, things couldn't go wrong.

Elisabeth fingered the bolts of fine russet and green wool that she had bought in the village and sighed longingly. ''We must wear only black when Peter arrives with the children,'' she reminded Elsie. ''We'll be expected to wear black for the next six months, but you've nearly outgrown your mourning clothes, and my black frock is worn to a raveling. I'll have to dye all of this cloth I just bought black so we can have new mourning clothes. What a shame. Rachel hated black clothes, and I'd been so looking forward to seeing you wearing the green wool.''

In the laundry room, Elisabeth shaved chips from a block of black chemical dye into a large vat of boiling water and waited until the chips dissolved. Then she unrolled the bolts of fine wool, plunged them into the foul-smelling black solution and let Elsie stir them around with a wooden paddle until the cloth had absorbed all it could of the dye. It took a day and a half for the wool to dry. Peter Burns drove his horse into the yard while Elisabeth was helping Jeanette to iron the yards of wool. The women set their irons aside at once when they heard him arrive, and went outside to greet the grieving man, with Elsie, wearing her too-tight black dress and a black shawl borrowed from Elisabeth to conceal her shabby and ill-fitting attire, trailing timidly behind.

''Hello, Peter,'' Jeanette said, leaning forward stiffly to kiss her brother-in-law on the cheek. Jeanette had long since rediscovered her power of speech, but her voice still sounded rusty with disuse.

''How are you holding up, Peter?'' Elisabeth asked concernedly. Peter seemed to have lost a great deal of weight; his jowls sagged, and he looked quite old. Peter couldn't bring himself to answer Elisabeth's question; he only motioned behind him, where a trio of forlorn-looking children dressed in black clothes every bit as poor as Elsie's sat huddled together in the cart. Except one of them didn't look very much like a child any more. Elsie recognised her cousin Joe, who had grown into a tall, solidly-built young man with sideburns like his father's and a small moustache.

Elsie watched with fascination as Joe climbed from the cart and picked up the two small girls, one at a time, who were holding their arms out to him. Elsie knew that one of those girls was her sister; but which one? The girls were of about the same height; both were fair-haired and had pleasant, lightly freckled round faces with small noses and down-turned red lips. Elsie guessed that the girls looked so much alike because their mothers had been sisters, and Rachel had resembled Jeanette far more than Maryann, Alice, or Elisabeth.

Joe was staring anxiously at Elsie. While the adults conversed in quiet tones, Joe took one of the little girls in his arms and brought her to Elsie.

''This is Lydia,'' he said, his voice shockingly deep and gruff. A man's voice. ''We like to call her Lyddie.'' The child was silent and shied away from Elsie. She lay her head on Joe's shoulder and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Joe gently pulled the thumb away. ''I've been trying to get her to stop that,'' he continued. ''I tell her that the habit will make her teeth grow crooked as a rabbit's. But she doesn't listen to me.''

''Does she know who I am?'' Elsie ventured.

''Of course she knows who you are. Look this way, Lyddie. Meet your sister Elsie. You're going to be living with her now. She'll take good care of you and love you dearly.''

The child remained silent and squirmed to get down. Joe put her on the ground and watched as she ran over to Charlotte and grabbed hold of her hand.

Oscar appeared out of nowhere, and tipped his hat to Peter.

''This is Oscar Darrow,'' Elisabeth said. ''He helps us around the farm.''

''I am Dougal Hendry's serving man,'' Oscar affirmed. ''May I take your cart into the barn, Sir?''

''No, thank you,'' Peter said. ''I fear I must go already.''

''Won't you at least have a cup of tea with us before you go?'' Jeanette entreated.

''No, I don't have the time. Joseph, come here.''

Joe approached his father. Peter laid his hands on the young man's shoulders and said, ''Chin up, boy. Look after your sister and cousin. I'll not be away more than a few days. Now is a sad time for us all, but life goes on.'' Peter bade his family good-bye, climbed into his cart, and drove slowly away.

That was that. ''Poor man,'' Elisabeth said, surveying Peter's children and her youngest niece, who clung nervously to Charlotte.

''Is that one Lydia?'' Jeanette wondered aloud. Before anyone could answer, she bent down next to her second daughter and took the child's face in her hands. ''Do you know me, Lyddie? I'm your mammy. It's so good to see you.''

Elsie stood by Joe, watching Jeanette's first real encounter with Lydia through narrowed eyes. Elsie wondered if perhaps Jeanette was only saying the kind of things she thought she should say to her daughter, after seeing her for the first time in three years, the things everyone probably expected her to say. In truth, Jeanette did not really care to have the child with her again. She did not remember Lydia, had never so much as glanced at her three years ago when she had the chance, and had allowed her to be raised by another woman. The little girl was as good as a stranger to her now, and Jeanette knew it.

''And I'm your aunt Elisabeth.'' Elisabeth smiled a friendly smile at the little girls, who burst into tears simultaneously. ''Oh, dear me. Joe, you must show the girls that we don't mean any harm.''

''Right. Charlotte, Lyddie, let's go on inside and sit down. We've had a long day, I'm sure the both of you are tired out.'' Elsie stifled a laugh as Joe walked behind the children with outstretched arms, guiding them gently towards the farmhouse, as if they were lambs being put into a new pen.

The next few days were uneventful. Elisabeth and Jeanette finished ironing the black-dyed wool and set to cutting pieces of it to sew into new mourning clothes for Elisabeth and Elsie. There would be enough material left over to make Jeanette a new bodice. They would use up every bit of the wool that they could; any bits left over that were too small to do anything with could be sold to the rag-picker next time Elisabeth was in the village. When it was time to piece together the new garments, Joe volunteered to carry out the chores Elsie normally did in the morning so she would have more time to sew with her mother and aunt. Charlotte and Lyddie were too young to do much else other than scatter feed to the poultry, pick bilberries and some early blackberries by the fields, collect eggs, pluck the occasional chicken, and keep the farmhouse tidy.

Joe spent hours each day working in the fields with Alfred and Oscar. It was nearly August, and time to mow hay from the fields with a horse-drawn mower. But as in the previous year, the weather didn't allow for mowing.

When Alfred was sober, he counted himself very lucky indeed to be the owner of his farm, especially when bad weather prevented him, time and time again, from harvesting his crops on time. Alfred had tithes to pay, like all farmers; but he was no tenant farmer obliged to pay rent every month to a landlord. Had he been a tenant farmer, his family might have been evicted from the farm after failing to produce enough potatoes, grain, fleeces and cheeses. Now that autumn was just around the corner again, Alfred faced the problem of feeding his livestock through the winter. Animals fed on low-quality hay often fell sick and died. There was a good-sized piece of land on the Hughes farm in which mangelwurzels thrived, but because of the unremitting rain, Alfred, Oscar, and Joe were forced to take them out of the earth before their time so they wouldn't rot. If you had nothing else to feed livestock on through winter, the bulbous, dull yellow roots would do. But animals should have plenty of roughage in their diets, and that's where hay came in.

Cold rain fell steadily from the dirty grey sky as the three men walked along the deep ridges of the large mangelwurzel plot, lugging large buckets behind them, into which they tossed the immature roots as they pulled them from the sodden earth. A few of the mangels were already showing signs of spoilage, soft black spots in the otherwise firm cream-coloured flesh. A few rotten mangels could ruin the whole lot, so the black spots would have to be cut out like the eyes from a potato before the roots were stored in a straw-covered clamp between the apple orchard and the barn.

This year, Alfred ordered that the leafy tops of the mangelwurzels, which were usually turned into a thin compost for the vegetable garden, be saved and hung up in bunches to dry. He reasoned that if enough grain couldn't be harvested to provide the animals with much-needed roughage, then the large dried leaves would have to do. The animals would be unused to such fodder, but with any luck they would all eat their share of the leaves and survive into spring.

There was also the overabundance of apples to be taken into account. Most of the apples would be turned into cider, so Alfred's family would have something to drink other than water or milk. A percentage of that cider would be turned into vinegar to be used in remedies for illness and the pickling of vegetables and fruits. But perhaps Alfred could keep back a few apples to feed the animals along with the mangels and whatever hay they could get when the sun shone again.

Alfred knew that he should speak with Jeanette and Elisabeth about this, but Jeanette was yet of unsound mind, and he didn't like speaking with Elisabeth after he had lost his temper and beaten her three years before. Alfred's mind was half-rotted by drink, and he didn't recall why he had beaten Elisabeth; he only knew that he must have been very angry with her to do such a thing.

Elisabeth had taken long to recover from the beating, and she never looked Alfred in the eye again. Alfred wasn't sorry. He wouldn't be perturbed or bossed around by a woman. No, he would not. He was the head of his family. The women answered to him. Or so Alfred told himself as he puttered about in the muddy field, his hands filled with unripe mangels. The rain worsened and got into his eyes so he couldn't see.

Oscar looked up at the sky and swore angrily. ''How can we get anything done in this damned weather?'' he cried above the roar of the rain. Thunder sounded in the distance.

Alfred was chilled to the bone. He needed a drink to warm him up. ''Leave off it, boys,'' he said, wringing his soaking-wet tam o' shanter. ''We can't walk in these fields as it is. We'll bring the mangels we've plucked into the barn; the rest are done for.''

The barn was cool and airy. The men dumped their buckets of mangels onto a platform covered in straw so they would dry evenly before they were stored in the clamp. Then Oscar and Joe headed towards the farmhouse, feeling apprehensive and dejected. Though hardly more than a boy, Joe understood the seriousness of the problem most of the nearby farms, including his father's, were facing. Bad weather could bankrupt farms send families that had farmed for generations to the poorhouses in the mainland, the worst place a man could end up.

A stream of dirty water suddenly fell behind Joe as he exited the barn, and he looked up in surprise. The barn roof had a bad leak. He wondered why no one had noticed it before. Since his arrival, Joe had been astonished by the level of disrepair the Hughes farm had fallen into during the last few years. As a boy, he had envied the large and busy Hughes farm; now, his father's place was the better one. Joe had watched his father repair roofs before, and he resolved to repair the roof of this barn himself as soon as he were able to. No one else was likely to do it.

He didn't like to think of Elsie living on rapidly decaying farm, with leaking roofs, broken fences, only one serving man, and a careless drunk by the name of Alfred Hughes who called all the shots.

''Elsie, your stitches are getting too long,'' Elisabeth reprimanded gently. ''Twenty stitches to the inch. That's the rule. You don't want your work to fall apart before you've worn it a year.'' She showed Elsie the long seam she had sewn on the sleeve of the bodice of her new mourning dress. The stitches, done in black thread so that they were all but invisible against the soft black wool, were tiny and even. Elisabeth knew that Elsie could sew as well as she, but the girl's mind was a million miles away as they sat in the parlour, swamped by yards of fabric.

Charlotte and Lyddie, who had proven themselves inseparable, had fallen asleep on the sofa next to Elsie, lulled by the hard patter of the rain on the parlour windows.

Elisabeth clicked her tongue. ''Poor wee babes. They seem like the best of friends. It'll be hard to part them when Peter comes to collect Joe and Charlotte.''

''I've been thinking of that,'' Elsie said. ''Do you think it will be hard for Uncle Peter to leave Lyddie with us?''

Elisabeth bit off a length of thread. ''I suppose it might be hard. After all, your sister has been raised along with his children.''

''Do you think Uncle Peter love Lyddie?''

''He might. I'd say he very well might. I'm sure he loves Joseph and Charlotte.''

''Did my father love me?''

Elisabeth looked quizzically at her niece. ''Why would you ask that, dear?''

Elsie shrugged. ''I don't know. I've always wondered.''

''Elsie, I'm sure your father loved you. In his own way. You were his only child. Men always want sons to carry on the family name, sons they can teach their trade to.'' But Elisabeth knew that she hadn't really answered Elsie's question. ''I didn't know your father well,'' she went on, dropping her voice to a whisper. ''But he was a good man, Elsie. A fine man. He loved your mother very much.'' The young woman glanced around to see if Jeanette was anywhere near, because she didn't want her sister to hear what she was going to tell Elsie next. But Jeanette was in the dairy, heating fresh milk to make into cheese.

Elisabeth stabbed her needle into the fabric of the bodice she was preparing to hem. ''If I tell you this,'' she began, looking at Elsie sharply, ''You must never tell a soul. I know you can keep a secret. When my parents was old and near death, Francis came to our farm to court your mam. I was about your age then, and had seen few men but my brothers and father. Your father was nothing like them; he was tall, handsome, and dressed himself well. He spoke well. I like that in a man. I think I fell a little in love with your father while he was stepping out with Jeanette. I wouldn't say that I was jealous of Jeanette because Francis was interested in her; after all, I was only a child, and Francis would have never looked my way! When he and your mam married, I begged my father to let me go live with Jeanette. Father argued that he needed my help at home, but I was adamant. When Mother died soon after, he let me go, because my sisters were all married and gone; and how could a young girl have lived in a house full of men?''

''You loved my father?'' Elsie said quietly in disbelief.

''Aye. I truly think I did. He was a fine man, as I said, and a good farmer. He took care of his family well. Not like his brother.'' Elisabeth shuddered, thinking of Alfred. ''Besides that, Francis was good enough to let me stay with Jeanette, when he could have sent me to a factory to work, or hired me out as a servant. I saw how your mother pleased him with her mere presence, and so I worked as hard as I could every day to please him as well.''

Elsie started to say something, but she was interrupted by a horrible scream from the dairy. She and Elisabeth dropped their work and ran in the direction of the scream. They found Jeanette writhing in pain on the dairy floor, clutching her arm to her chest. The poor woman moaned in pain. There was water spilled all around her, and steam rose from the floorboards.

''Elsie, get some cold water!'' Elisabeth cried, trying to get a good look at Jeanette's badly scalded wrist. She fumbled with Jeanette's sleeve, which was soaked with hot water and hard to roll up.

Elsie did as she was told. When she returned to the dairy with a bucket of cold water attained from the outdoor pump, Elisabeth had Jeanette sitting on a wooden chair. She'd had to open Jeanette's bodice and take her arm out of its sleeve to ascertain the severity of the burn. The skin of Jeanette's write bore a pale mark the size of Elsie's hand which darkened ominously when Elisabeth plunged the wrist into the bucket of cold water. When Jeanette flinched at the shock of the cold water and pulled her wrist partway out of the bucket, Elisabeth and Elsie saw that the mark had darkened because a layer of Jeanette's skin had lifted right off and now clung to the burned area by a thread.

''My God,'' Elisabeth breathed.

Elsie felt like being sick.

''Let's move her to the kitchen, Elsie. There are clean bandages there, and I've heard that putting sheep's tallow on burns is helpful. We can try that, then bandage her arm. My God, I knew I shouldn't have let her boil milk in the dairy alone!''

''It's not you're fault,'' Elsie promised, helping Elisabeth to half-carry, half-drag her sobbing mother into the kitchen.

Elisabeth grimaced as she removed the large piece of dead skin from Jeanette's arm. She carefully dabbed the burn dry with a clean linen cloth, then slathered on a thick coat of tallow before bandaging the wrist neatly.

Charlotte and Lydia had wakened on the sofa while Elisabeth and Elsie were in the dairy and, finding themselves alone in the parlour, began to cry. Elsie went into the parlour to comfort them. ''Hush, now,'' she said. ''No need to fuss. Come into the kitchen, there's my good girls.''

Charlotte stopped crying, but Lyddie bawled like a calf separated from its mother. ''Where's Mam?'' she pleaded.

Elsie picked the little girl up and hugged her tightly. ''Mam's in the kitchen, my sister. I'll take you to her.'' Lyddie brightened at that, but when she was faced with Jeanette, she cried all the more, inconsolable.

''Where did Mam go?''

''Mam's dead,'' Charlotte stated matter-of-factly.

''Lyddie,'' Elsie said, ''That is your mam, over there. She's my mam, too.''

The front door opened and Joe strode in, followed by Oscar. Both of them were dripping wet. It was still raining heavily outside. ''What's all the commotion?''

''Mam scalded herself in the dairy,'' Elsie said.

''Why is Lyddie upset?''

''It's as though she doesn't know that you have two different mothers,'' Elisabeth spat, stroking Jeanette's hair to calm her. ''For heaven's sake, Joe. And Oscar. Don't just stand there, take your shoes off and put them to dry by the fire. Change out of your wet things, or you'll both catch your death! Where's that Alfred?''

''He's gone off to his cottage,'' Oscar said, putting his heavy work boots by the range and removing his mud-streaked twill smock and putting it to dry on a hook near the range.

''Good,'' Elisabeth replied curtly. She looked out the window at the rain pouring down. ''Were you able to get anything done?''

''Precious little.'' Oscar took a seat beside Elisabeth at the table and heaved a great sigh. ''I don't know how we're going to do it. If you want an honest assessment of the situation. The weather is god-awful every bleeding day. The hay is going to be ruined before long. All we're going to have to feed the animals with this winter is bloody mangels, and those will be awfully poor, because we've had to take them out of the ground before they're ready, or risk losing every one.'' He hung his head, and Elisabeth frowned deeply.

Joe took Lyddie from her sister. ''I saw that the barn roof has a bad leak in it. I should go up there and fix it tomorrow. Even if it rains. You can't have water coming into the barn.''

''Right you are, laddie. But I'll have to fix the barn.''

''Tell Alfred to fix it, Oscar,'' Elisabeth suggested.

''No, he'll go up there half-drunken and fall to his death.''

''I can do it,'' Joe persisted. ''I know how.''

''Do you?'' Oscar raised his eyebrows. ''Do you think you can do a job like that, lad? You're not afraid to go up?''

Joe shook his head. ''I'm not afraid. Really. I've seen Da patch roofs many a time.''

''That's settled, then,'' Oscar breathed morosely. ''It'll certainly help me out, for I've got loads of work to do on the morrow.''

Lyddie had become quiet in Joe's arms. But Joe gave her to Elsie to take upstairs. ''She needs to rest, Elsie,'' he said. ''Mam's dying was a shock for her. It was a shock for all of us. She's too small to understand...''

''Does she understand that Aunt Rachel wasn't her real mother?''

''I don't know. I honestly don't know. You know how little ones are, they attach themselves wholly to the first person who shows them a bit of kindness...'' He stopped when he saw the pained expression on Jeanette's face.

Elsie sighed morosely and carried her sister upstairs. Charlotte came stalking after. Jeanette retired to her bed, exhausted and still very much in pain, despite the cooling effect of the tallow on her ravaged skin.

''Put that girl to bed, then meet me in the dairy,'' Elisabeth called up to Elsie. ''We need to clean up the water in there, and finish the job your mother started.''

Elisabeth hurried to make a large pot of tea for Oscar and Joseph to share, as well as a separate cup of willow bark tea to ease Jeanette's pain and help her sleep.

Elisabeth was more flustered than she had been in ages. Her face was red, and her hands trembled as she made the tea. ''Problems, problems, problems!'' she hissed. ''There's not enough hours in the day to get all my work done! Sew on black dresses, clean, feed the animals with the worst kind of fodder, hover over my sister to make sure she doesn't kill herself, milk the cows, make cheese...''

Oscar touched her arm. ''Elisabeth, may I speak in private to you? When you've a moment?''

Elisabeth just stared at him, then brought Jeanette her cup of willow tea, leaving Joe and Oscar to pour tea for themselves.

By late evening, Elisabeth had forgotten all about Oscar's asking to speak with her in private. She had spent all afternoon in the dairy with Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie, teaching them how to make cheese by a process she called ''cheddaring''. First, they poured jugs of milk into huge steel vats and heat the milk by sitting jugs of boiling water in the vat, replacing the jugs when they started to cool down, until the milk became so hot that Elisabeth could just endure to dip the tip of her finger in it. Elisabeth had made cheese hundreds of times in her life, but this time, she was especially careful when handling the jugs of boiling water, knowing that Jeanette had scalded herself by handling them carelessly.

Elsie had obtained rennet from the fourth stomach of a newborn calf by washing and drying the stomach lining, cutting it into small pieces and leaving it in a jar of brine for four days. The girl added the stinking rennet to the hot milk and stirred it with a paddle under her aunt's watchful eye. Soon, the milk began to curdle, and was allowed to go cold. When the curds had separated from the whey and lay in a lumpy, sickly-smelling mass across the greyish, watery substance, Elisabeth showed Elsie how to drag a curd knife across the curds to cut them into cubes. Afterwards, the whey was drained off through a spout at the base of the vats, brought to a boil, and returned to the vats. The whey re-heated the curd, which transformed into a thick, heavy sheet. When the curd had cooled sufficiently, Elisabeth and Elsie piled it in blocks on great wooden paddles and turned the piles over to gently compress the curds. The solid blocks of curd were subsequently put into a curd mill to be ground finely, and Charlotte and Lyddie were given the job of mixing salt into the grounds. At last, Elisabeth, worn out with excertion and suffering from an aching back, packed the salted curds into molds and fitted the molds into the cheese press, where they could remain untouched for the next week while the press expelled any leftover whey.

It was nearly nightfall, but Elisabeth's work wasn't over yet. Upon leaving the dairy, she trekked across the muddy farmyard to the place where the clamp used for storing mangelwurzels was located. She kneeled on the wet ground and dug deeply into the sizeable mound of dirt, wood chips, and straw to find enough of the roots to fill the bucket she'd brought with her for feeding the pigs.

A twig snapped behind her, and Elisabeth looked fearfully over her shoulder, afraid that Alfred might have come to bother her again. She sighed with sheer relief to see that it was only Oscar standing close by with a amiable smile on his handsome face. He was smoking his pipe; exhaling a cloud of smoke through the corner of his mouth, he said, ''Let me help you with that.'' He bent down to collect a heaping bucketful of mangels for Elisabeth before she could protest, carried the heavy bucket to the pigsty for her, and fed the pigs, observing Elisabeth all the while.

''Do you recall that I wished to speak to you in private?'' he asked.

''Yes. I hadn't time earlier. Forgive me.''

''There's nothing to forgive. I just wanted to tell you that I'm leaving soon.''

''Oh.'' Elisabeth wasn't surprised; she'd known Oscar would have to go back to Dougal's farm at some point.

''You see, my brother owns a small shop in Inveraray. He's offered me a job in the shop.''

''So you'll move to Inveraray to work there? My, what an opportunity, Oscar. I'm happy for you. I wish you all the best.''

''No, you don't understand. Elisabeth, I'd like you to accompany me to Inveraray.''

Elisabeth felt the blood drain from her face. ''Mr Darrow,'' she said formally, ''Is this a proposal?''

''Well, yes. You're a good woman, Elisabeth. I've always thought very highly of you; and I'd like to give you a better life.'' He regarded the decrepit barn and wide expanses of muddy fields fetid with half-ruined crops that surrounded him with absolute distaste. ''Look at this place. Do you want to spend the rest of your life here? I'll tell you, this farm is going straight to the bad fire, and you'll suffer if you stay.''

''Will I?'' Elisabeth thought for a moment. She knew that Oscar was speaking the truth. But that truth was so hard to accept. Inveraray was a far-off place. She couldn't imagine what living there might be like. If she went to Inveraray with Oscar, she would be the wife of a shopkeeper. It seemed an easy existance. Oscar would work in the shop while she stayed hidden in the back room, handling the shop's accounts. She and Oscar might live in an apartment above the shop which wouldn't be difficult to keep tidy. Oscar would make good money. They would have children. At least one of their sons would follow in his father's footsteps, learning maintaining the shop, while their daughters grew up to marry other shopkeepers, butchers, bakers, and other respectable members of the working class. They would never marry farmers. A serving man might take a farmer's daughter to be his wife, if he was about to rise to the position of shopkeeper in a big city, but the daughter of a shopkeeper would never stoop so low as to marry a serving man or a farmer.

Thinking of that, Elisabeth was tempted to accept Oscar's proposal. Years of back-breaking work had taken its toll on her. She was eighteen years old and already suffering from rheumatism which got especially bad in the winter.

''But what about my family? What about Jeanette? Who will take care of her? And Elsie and Lyddie? It's up to me to raise them properly...since their mother can't.''

''Send Jeanette and the girls to live with one of your other sisters.''

''No, I...I could never do such a thing, Oscar. I care about my sister. I love Elsie.'' She unconsciously put her hand over her heart. ''And I'll grow to love Lydia. I wager she'll be needing me to care for her and show her kindness more than anyone after Peter comes to get Joseph and Charlotte, the only family she's ever known.''

Oscar didn't understand. ''What are you saying?''

''I'm just saying that I can't leave my sister and the girls.''

Oscar was hurt, even offended; it was evident on his face. ''Fine,'' he said roughly. ''That's fine. You've made your decision. I'll not toil on this waste of a farm another day. I'll go back to Dougal Hendry's farm in the morning and tell him of my decision to accept my brother's job offer.''

Elisabeth went to bed in tears, the overlapping images of Oscar's face twisted in disgust, and later in genuine disappointment, etched forever into her memory. She understood that she might have just wasted the only chance she'd ever have to enjoy the comforts of a better life. If Oscar had offered to take her sister and nieces to live with them to Inveraray, she would have accepted his proposal without a second thought. She was sure that Oscar was a good man, a kind man. She could have perhaps been very happy as his wife. But she couldn't bring herself to leave her family.

She couldn't bring herself to leave Elsie and Lyddie. They needed her.

Elisabeth undressed quietly in her attic bedroom and wondered what it would be like to be undressed by a man. She felt acutely ashamed for wondering such a thing. But it wasn't the first time she had wondered. In years gone by, Elisabeth had liked to imagine Francis entering her bedroom while she was undressing and helping her to remove her petticoats and corset and the linen chemise she wore underneath it before carrying her clad only in her long black stockings to bed to do the thing men and women did with one another. The thing she couldn't quite bring herself to imagine. Now, Elisabeth thought of what it might have been like to have Oscar undress her on their wedding night. Elisabeth had never even been kissed by a man, and somehow...somehow, Elisabeth knew that she never would be. Just as she knew that fire burned and that kindness was good. Her life belonged to her family, and to her endless responsibilities on the farm which set the course for the life she had been born into.

She looked at Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie, who were asleep on one of the two mattresses covering the attic floor, and lay down beside them. She felt sorry for the girls, though she couldn't say why.

''Where's Oscar?'' Joseph asked the next morning as Elisabeth served her family breakfast. ''And why are your eyes so red?''

''My eyes?'' Elisabeth had woken earlier than usual, just in time to see the serving man leave the tiny outbuilding behind the farmhouse that had been his living quarters for the last three years, with a patched burlap bag containing his clothing and a few personal items slung over his shoulder, never to return. She had wept long after that. ''I'm just tired, is all. Oscar went back to my brother-in-law's farm. It was time for him to go.''

''Oh. He never told me he was going. I'm going to repair the barn roof today.''

Elsie glanced up from some pieces of bread she was buttering for Charlotte and Lyddie. ''You're sure you can manage it alone? Could I help in some way?''

''No thank you, I can manage.''

''Have Alfred hold the ladder for you,'' Elisabeth advised.

''Alfred said he was going into the village today for something. He left over an hour ago.''

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. ''Well, that's fine. What business could he possibly have in the village? I'll bet he's only going there to waste more money on spirits!''

''Joe, let me hold the ladder for you,'' Elsie said. ''What if the ladder were to fall while you're on the roof? You'd have no way of getting down!''

''Elsie, Joe can fix the barn roof by himself. I need your help sewing today,'' Elisabeth muttered distractedly as she changed the bandange on Jeanette's wrist. Elisabeth pursed her lips at the sight of the burn. A series of blisters had mushroomed on Jeanette's wrist. They were terrible to look at. As Elisabeth carefully washed the burn, patted it dry and applied more sheep's tallow and a new bandage, she wondered if she had better send for the doctor to look at the burn. But a doctor would cost money, and there was almost no money in the house.

Joe wished he had someone to help him carry the cumbersome ladder to the barn. The day was overcast but uncomfortably hot, and Joe kept having to pause in dragging the ladder to wipe sweat from his brow. Eventually, he got the ladder to the barn and propped it up against the wall on a level bit of ground near where he thought the leak was. He found a hammer and a pack of nails and several long, thin boards to patch the roof with. He planned to arrange the boards like shingles over the hole, nail them securely down, and then paint over the boards with pitch to ensure it stayed waterproof.

He ascended the ladder slowly, using one arm to balance himself and the other to carry the basket containing the hammer, nails, and boards. The roof of the barn was quite low-pitched, so it wasn't difficult to sit there without fear of sliding off while Joe placed the first board over the weak spot. Joe noticed that he could see straight down to the bottom of the barn through the aperture. He positioned a nail over a corner of the board, and began hammering.

The nail had almost been driven home when Joe's ears pricked at a low, groaning noise, which he at first thought was thunder. But the sound quickly grew louder, and before he knew it, a section of the roof had given way beneath him.

Joe fell fast and hard.


	4. Alfred

Author's note: Today, I realised that I made a mistake while writing this story. It was a tiny mistake, but perhaps some of you caught it. Remember back in the first chapter, when I wrote about Jeanette lying on her deathbed, surrounded by her _four_ sisters, and recounting her vision of Francis' fetch...? Well, I had already planned for Rachel to die. But I wrote four sisters, when Rachel actually wouldn't be alive to surround Jeanette's deathbed. So sorry for the mistake. I must learn to edit better.

Thanks for all the lovely reviews I've gotten so far. I'm having great fun writing this. This chapter will be extra long, since there were some events I didn't want to separate into two chapters. I'm worried about the quality of this chapter, but I hope you like it! As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.

_In addition to the framed wedding picture, I have only twelve photographs to my name. Some of them are quite old and faded. I keep them in a large yellow envelope along with a heavy stack of papers of varying size covered in rows of flowing cursive – letters from my sister from when she lived in Lytham St Annes that I've read and re-read so many times I can recite them by heart._

_I rummaged in the envelope for the lovely portrait with pinked edges that Lydia and her husband, Victor Morgan, a chauffeur, had taken soon after announcing their engagement. I found the portrait and handed it to Sybille, reminding myself to find a frame for the portrait later. As important as that portrait is to me, I don't know why I haven't put it in a frame long before now._

_''Is this your sister?'' Sybille guessed correctly._

_''It is. We didn't look very much alike, did we?''_

_''No. Almost not at all.''_

_''Lyddie took after our mother, while I favoured our father.'' It was true. My sister and I bore no resemblence to one another with the exception of our tallness and build, the fairness of our skin, and the shape of our noses. How I used to envy Lydia's looks; her wavy hair, the colour of bronze, fell to her broad hips. Her brown eyes sparkled vivaciously, and her lips were red and alluring. On our uncle's farm, Lydia kept her hair in a tight braid hidden underneath her shawl, but during our time in Lochgilphead, she began to follow the latest fashions with hair, pinning it in a large roll on the crown of her head and teasing it for volume. That is, until our employers forbade her from such frivolities, and restricted Lydia to more modest coiffures. Of course, I had my own hair frizzled out in front and did my best to copy the winsome creatures on the pages of _The Queen_, and later, _Vogue_. But I lacked confidence enough to take as much pride in my appearance as Lyddie did in hers. Yes, I envied my sister her looks, but even more so, her unflappable confidence._

_I'm sure that Victor loved by sister very much. But that didn't stop him from breaking Lydia's heart. Victor killed my sister without ever meaning to. The stupid, selfish man. He passed the disease to Lydia that ended up killing them both._

_Another photograph slipped from the envelope, landing face down on the carpet. It was dated Christmas 1907. Sybille retrieved the photograph and flipped it over. ''Who is this? She's a beauty.''_

_''Oh, her. She most certainly was a beauty. Her name was Sybil Branson.''_

Chapter Four: Alfred

There was nothing beneath Joe to break his fall; he landed on his back on the dusty floor of the barn and was knocked out cold. He lay there for two hours, and when the weather turned nasty, rain fell through the gaping hole in the barn roof and covered Joe with water which ran into his nose and eyes and open mouth and might have drowned him, had Elsie not been sent to find where Joe had disappeared to.

When Elsie saw him lying there, she thought he was dead and shrieked. Elisabeth, afraid that Elsie had stepped on a rusty nail, came running into the barn. Her eyes fell on Joseph, and she nearly collapsed. Gathering her wits, she rushed towards the boy, calling his name and slapping his cheeks.

''Is he dead? Is he dead?'' Elsie kept asking, her face white as a sheet.

''I don't know. Be quiet!'' Elisabeth put her ear against Joe's chest. She thought she could hear his heart beating faintly. ''Joseph, Joseph!'' she shouted.

She heard another sound. It was Alfred coming home from the village with the horse and cart. ''Elsie, stay with Joe!'' Elisabeth ordered. ''Try to wake him up, but don't hurt him!''

Elisabeth ran to the other side of the barn, where Alfred was unhitching the horse. She was so out of breath that she couldn't speak; Alfred spun around, almost in fright, noting her florid face and eyes wide with terror.

''What is the matter with you, woman? Have you seen the devil?''

''Alfred,'' Elisabeth gasped, ''Hitch the horse back up again. You must go bring the doctor. Joseph has fallen through the barn roof – I'm not able to wake him – and he may be about to die!''

Alfred's mouth fell open. He started to move towards where Joe had fallen, but Elisabeth stopped him. ''Please! Hitch the horse back up, you must bring the doctor right away! It's urgent! We cannot let the boy die! Think of Peter – ''

But Alfred was already hurrying to ready the cart again for a second trip into the village where the old Irish doctor resided.

''Joe, please wake up!'' Elsie pleaded. ''You can't die now.'' The girl looked up at the rain falling on the both of them, and tore off her apron so she would have something to cover Joe's face with until the doctor arrived.

The village was an hour's ride away; Alfred could have reached it sooner if he'd ridden the horse there without the cart. But he doubted that the old doctor could have managed an hour behind him on horseback.

Doctor Giles Fitzgerald lived in a modest two-story brick house on the edge of the village with a green-painted front door and large front windows hung with white curtains. It was past midday, and the doctor was sitting down for dinner. Alfred climbed from the cart and pounded on the green door. Presently, the middle-aged housekeeper, dressed in her customary somber blue gown and fringed lace shawl, opened the door and asked Alfred to state his business. Alfred told her what had happened. The housekeeper nodded and went to find the doctor. It seemed an eternity before Doctor Fitzgerald came to the door with the black leather bag of his profession.

''Please hurry, Doctor,'' Alfred pleaded. The doctor said nothing as he climbed up into the cart beside Alfred, who ordered his horse to fairly gallop home.

''Where did you say the boy was?''

''In the barn, Doctor. He fell through the roof.''

''I know that.''

By now Jeanette, Elisabeth, Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie were crowded around Joe, who had still not woken up.

''Is the lad bleeding from anywhere?'' Doctor Fitzgerald asked, stroking his short white beard.

''I haven't noticed any blood,'' Elisabeth answered.

''How long has he been unconscious?''

''We don't know. He went out to patch up the roof after breakfast. When he never came back, I sent my niece to search for him...''

The doctor bent to examine Joe. He forced one of the boy's eyes open, then the other, and said nothing. He peered into Joe's mouth to check for blood, but found not a trace of it. As he felt around Joe's skull, Joe jerked away, and the doctor smiled. ''That was the best sign I could have possibly hoped for. I don't believe the lad is suffering from internal bleeding. His skull does not seem to be fractured in any way. But we must move him to a bed. We can do it together. Go fetch a large sheet and I'll show you what to do.''

Elsie was sent for a sheet, which the doctor folded neatly in half on the ground beside Joe. He directed Alfred to take the upper part of Joe's body, Elisabeth to take his feet, and Elsie to support him under his back as they transferred Joe onto the sheet in one swift motion on the count of three. Then Doctor Fitzgerald, Alfred, Elisabeth, and Elsie grasped the sheet by each of its four corners and struggled with it into the house.

''Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, Doctor?'' Elsie asked politely when Joe was safely in bed, stripped to his undergarments beneath the covers.

''Why, thank you, child. Some coffee would be much appreciated.'' Doctor Fitzgerald turned to address Alfred and Elisabeth, who stood worriedly at the foot of Joe's bed. ''I'm afraid the lad has broken a few ribs. However, I can't hear any evidence that a piece of bone has perforated one of his lungs. Thank God for that. The breaks seem to be clean, and I've bandaged them to the best of my ability. They should heal within eight weeks. It's the concussion that bothers me. I'm afraid it's a rather serious one.''

In the kitchen, Elsie renewed the fire in the range and put a kettle of water on to boil. She ground up a double handful of coffee beans and put them into a tin coffee pot, listening intently all the while to everything Doctor Fitzgerald was saying. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Joe, who lay against his feather pillow as pale as death with strips of cloth wrapped tightly around his skull and jaw.

''Are you the lad's father?'' Doctor Fitzgerald asked Alfred.

''No, Doctor. Joseph lives on a farm near Lochgilphead. His father sent him and his sister here while he tends to the burial of his recently departed mother.''

''Oh, dear,'' the doctor said, crossing himself. ''When will his father be back?''

''It should be any time. He only wanted to be gone a few days.''

''I see.'' The doctor sat down on the chair Elisabeth had put near Joe's bed.

Elsie came with a wooden tray bearing a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, a dish of sugar, and a small pitcher of fresh cream. She put the tray on the desk that Elisabeth occupied when figuring household accounts and began to pour the doctor a cup of coffee. Doctor Fitzgerald watched the girl's considerate and austere manner with interest. He didn't know Elsie; he didn't think that she could be more than nine or ten, though she was tall for her age, but she conducted herself like someone much older. She was a young lady who liked things to be done right.

Elsie handed the doctor a steaming cup of coffee and curtsied stiffly. ''Is there anything else I can get you, Doctor?''

The doctor stroked his beard thoughtfully. ''No, thank you, child. May I ask your name?''

''Elsie Hughes, Doctor.'' She curtsied again.

''Thank you for the coffee, Miss Hughes. It's very good. Are you friends with this boy?''

''He is my cousin, Doctor.''

''I see.''

''Will he – will he be all right, Doctor?''

''Yes, Elsie. I think he will be. I would say there is a good chance. But he must stay in bed until his ribs heal. His head wound is severe, but it won't take as long to get better as his ribs.''

Elsie heard Elisabeth clear her throat behind her. ''Doctor, may I speak to you for a moment?''

''Of course, Miss Baxter.''

Elsie, feeling herself dismissed, went into the parlour, where Charlotte and Lydia were playing with a rag doll.

''Look,'' Lyddie said, ''Dolly is in mourning for her mam.'' Elsie saw that the little girls had dressed the doll in scraps of black wool.

''Is Joe going to die?'' Charlotte asked.

Elsie smoothed the little girl's blonde hair. ''The doctor doesn't seem to think so. But who knows. Try not to worry about it, Charlotte. There's no use in worrying about things we have no power over.''

Jeanette held out her burned wrist so Doctor Fitzgerald could remove the new bandage Elisabeth had put on her earlier that day. The large blisters had burst, though Elisabeth had taken care not to tie the bandage too tightly, and a sticky, clear fluid seeped from the raw pink skin.

''What have you been treating this burn with, Miss Baxter?''

''Sheep's tallow, Doctor. I had always heard that it's good to put on burns. I wash and dry the burn every time I put a new bandage on.''

''And have you been boiling the bandages?''

''Yes, Doctor. I scrub the tallow out of the cloth, then boil it, and even iron it out before using it again, so it lies neatly against the skin.''

Doctor Fitzgerald regarded Elisabeth amusedly. ''Miss Baxter, you have done well in the treatment of this wound. But it has become infected anyway. Your sister is burning with fever, haven't you noticed?''

Elisabeth was astounded. She opened and closed her mouth several times before saying, ''Has she got a fever? No, I didn't notice. How could I just notice, with all the work I have to do? Jeanette, if you felt ill, why didn't you tell me?''

''I'm not ill,'' Jeanette whispered listlessly, staring at the floor while Doctor Fitzgerald prepared to re-bandage her wrist. He pulled a small bottle of amber glass from his black leather bag.

''What is that?''

''This, Miss Baxter, is phenol. Carbolic acid. Perhaps it can stop the infection in the burn. However, the vapours of this substance are corrosive to the skin, eyes, and lungs. It will cause your sister pain when you apply it to the burn, and it will hurt the affected skin before the infection is stopped and it can heal over.''

''How much will that medicine cost? And how much will I owe you for your other services today?''

The doctor named his price. Elisabeth nearly panicked. She couldn't believe it.

''That much, Doctor? Why, I haven't got that much money in the house! Isn't there anything else I could give you to pay the bill – something for your larder, perhaps? Cheeses, or some nice dried mutton?''

Doctor Fitzgerald gave a tight smile and shook his head. ''What would I do with cheeses or dried mutton, Miss Baxter?''

''Eat it, of course! Hasn't a doctor got to eat like anybody else?''

''No need to be surly, Miss Baxter. A doctor must be paid what he is owed. And you owe me money, not victuals. If you haven't the means, perhaps this young man's father can pay.'' He gave Elisabeth the bottle of carbolic acid.

Elisabeth took the bottle. She wanted to weep. There was no money in the house. None at all now. And Joseph's father had probably just spent his last few shillings on burying his wife and newborn son. Elisabeth knew that she need not pay the doctor today, but he would have to have the money brought to him soon. Or else he might call the police to the Hughes farm; and then where would they all be?

''I'll get you the money as soon as I am able, Doctor,'' Elisabeth stammered.

The doctor smiled again, all business and no heart. ''Of course you shall. You know where I live.''

Drinking his coffee, he went on to explain to Elisabeth the manner in which she should apply the carbolic acid to Jeanette's burn. Holding her breath against the corrosive vapours, she was to pour a small amount of the acid onto a piece of wool, and swab Jeanette's wrist well. The acid would cause the burn to sting. But stinging meant curing. After several applications of the acid, the infection in the burn should go away. If Jeanette's fever broke, everything was well. If red streaks appeared leading from the burn towards her heart, Elisabeth was to send for him again immediately.

''And, as always, keep washing and boiling those bandages,'' Doctor Fitzgerald recommended as he picked up his black bag and sauntered out the door, which Alfred was holding open for him. ''I thank you for the delicious coffee.''

Alfred stared almost menacingly at Elisabeth for several seconds before turning to follow the doctor outside so he could drive him back to the village.

Elisabeth felt weak at the knees. She lowered herself onto the end of Joseph's bed, and looked at the boy. With a start, Elisabeth realised that the doctor had never specified when Joseph might wake. He'd been out for hours now. When would he wake up? Would he ever wake up?

Elisabeth blamed herself. She would have remembered to ask Doctor Fitzgerald if he could tell how long Joseph would be sleeping; but she'd been preoccupied with remembering to get him to have a look at Jeanette's burned wrist. Elisabeth suddenly gave her sister a very hard look.

''Why didn't you tell me that you had a fever, Jeanette?''

The other woman could not, or perhaps would not, speak. She stared vacantly at the floor.

''Jeanette, do you hear me? Have you gone deaf?'' Cold anger blossomed in Elisabeth's breast as Jeanette refused to answer her.

''The sacrifices I have to make for you,'' Elisabeth mused. ''I go willingly into debt to get medicine so you don't die from infection. I spend my days running a farm almost single-handedly, and caring for a mad woman on top of that. I've got too much to handle. I turned down a marriage proposal from a good man so I could be here to see to you. And this is the thanks I get – your brainless silence?''

Elsie heard her aunt shouting, something she rarely heard. She left the girls in the parlour and crept towards Elisabeth, who did not see her. Jeanette sat on her chair, bent over like a crone. Her face was blank; Elsie wondered if her mother's soul had departed but somehow left breath in her lungs and her heart beating as ever.

Elisabeth sat stifling her sobs, turning the bottle of carbolic acid round and around in one hand. Suddenly, Elisabeth set the bottle aside and slapped Jeanette hard across the face. Just once. Then she couldn't stifle her sobs any longer, and collapsed at her sister's feet.

''Forgive me, Jeanette, forgive me,'' Elisabeth pleaded, pressing her tear-stained face into Jeanette's skirts. ''I'm so sorry – I just can't take it any more. We're out of money, we're not enough to run this farm, and I don't know how to fix these problems. Forgive me.''

Elsie realised she had been holding her breath. She let it all out in a big rush, and Elisabeth saw her standing there, and knew that Elsie had just witnesses her strike her mother. Before Elisabeth could say anything, Elsie came up to her where she was on the floor and held her gently. She kissed the top of Elisabeth's head. Then, remembering Jeanette, who was watching her from the corner of her eye, Elsie embraced her as well for the first time in years. Jeanette hesitantly returned the embrace, and Elisabeth, embarrassed, went outside to the chicken house to see if there were any eggs to collect. She needed to be alone for a moment, anyway.

The fresh, rain-washed air made Elisabeth feel a great deal better, but her head still buzzed with worry, shame, and distress. She found five new eggs in the chicken house and collected them in her apron. She stood breathing in the damp, hay-smelling air until she saw Alfred coming with the horse and cart. Mustering all her courage, she followed him into the barn where he was leaving the cart.

''What a day it's been,'' Alfred said stonily.

''Yes.''

''Why are you here? Do you have something to discuss with me?''

''I do. I must speak with you about how we're going to pay for the doctor's visit today. I also asked Fitzgerald to look at Jeanette's burn. He says it's infected, and gave me a bottle of phenol to treat her with.''

Alfred sighed impatiently. He really didn't want to be hearing this. ''And how much is that going to cost?''

Elisabeth told him.

''Well, have you got that much?''

''No, I don't. I was wondering if you did.''

Alfred laughed darkly. ''Not bloody likely. Besides why should I have to pay for your family's troubles? It's your fault we're in debt now. You're the one who wanted to call the doctor for Joseph, who was clumsy enough to fall through a roof – ''

''We had to call the doctor for him! He might have died!''

''He might still die. If he does, all your money wil be wasted.''

''You don't understand.''

''And that sister of yours. Why are you trying to save her? She lost her mind a long time ago. She's never been the same since Francis died. She's of absolutely no use to any of us here. She can't do her work, she never even talks.''

''Jeanette is my sister, Alfred. I am obligated to take care of her.''

''No, you're not,'' Alfred said. ''No, you're not. So, how are you going to pay off old Fitzgerald?''

''We can sell some of the animals.''

Alfred was taken aback. ''Oh, no. Sell the animals? They're the only thing of worth we have. No one's selling the animals.''

''Well, how else can we pay the doctor?''

''I don't know. It's up to you.''

Elisabeth was fairly shaking in her boots, speechless. How could Alfred be this cruel to her? Why didn't he understand the problem, and help her through it?

Elisabeth started to walk away, then stopped. ''Alfred,'' she said, ''Jeanette and Joseph aren't just my family. They're your family, too. Remember that.''

Some time after this, Alfred met Peter in the yard as he returned from Lochgilphead. ''There's been an accident,'' he said gravely, and walked Peter into the farmhouse, where his son lay prone and pained in bed.

Joe had woken from the trauma of his fall the same evening; Elsie had been the first to notice him flutter his eyelids. Joe had felt, and still felt, to some extent, that up was down and down was up. His head spun and made it impossible to see straight. ''Elsie,'' he groaned before leaning over to vomit until there was nothing left in his stomach. He continued to heave for a while afterwards. The torment the heaving caused his broken ribs was nearly enough to make him pass out again. But Joe held on. Elsie held onto one of his hands while Elisabeth got him cleaned up, deliriously happy that her nephew was finally awake and knew every person in the room. He would live, after all.

Peter said his son's name and was rewarded with Joseph's weak grin. ''How are you, my boy?'' He sat on Joe's bed and took his hands in his own, eyes brimming with tears.

''Da, you're back!'' Charlotte heard her father's voice and stopped scrubbing a kettle with coarse sand to get the black off. She ran to Peter, and he lifted the little girl up onto his knee.

''Where's that Lyddie?''

''I'll go find her,'' Elsie offered.

''What did the doctor say?'' Peter asked of Elisabeth, for Alfred had gone to hide in his cottage. He didn't like company; it would have suited him well if he could but snap his fingers and have Peter and the children back on their farm.

Elisabeth told Peter everything, leaving the part about how much the doctor's visit was going to cost until the very last.

''I don't know what to say, Elisabeth. I haven't got that kind of money at hand any more than you do.''

''I know.''

''Thank you anyway, Elisabeth. Thank you for calling the doctor to look after Joseph. If anything worse had happened to him...''

Elisabeth nodded. ''I told Alfred that the only way we can settle the debt with old Fitzgerald is to sell the animals. Not all, but a few. The best of our sheep and pigs, to fetch the best price. But Alfred wouldn't hear of it.''

''Who would buy the beasts from you?''

''My brothers, perhaps. You know Edward and Arthur. Their farms can support more livestock. I'm sure they would buy the sheep, at least, in order to help me in this situation. When I write them to explain the situation, that is.''

''And you don't think they could lend you the money?''

''I would be sore ashamed to ask.''

''I see. My God, we are between a rock and a hard place. But don't you worry, Elisabeth. I'll speak to Alfred myself on this matter. Something has to be done. I agree that you should sell the animals, if that's what will pay for my son's life...'' His voice became thick with tears. ''If Alfred tells me that he won't part with the beasts, write to your brothers. Alfred will come to understand why you had to do it.''

Late that night, Jeanette sat in the parlour with Charlotte and Lydia, teaching the girls how to knit while Elisabeth added the finishing touches to Elsie's mourning clothes. Elsie stood wearing the soft woolen dress, which Elisabeth had sewn too large and long for her on purpose. This dress had to last Elsie a long time; so Elisabeth knelt before Elsie with a mouth full of pins, shortening the dress to calf length by pinning the fabric into rows of narrow horizontal pleats which could be let out from the top as Elsie grew taller.

They could hear fragments of a heated argument going on outside. Elisabeth was anxious for it to be over; following supper, Peter had gone to pay a visit to Alfred's cottage to speak with him about selecting the sheep that needed to be sold to pay for the doctor, as there was no other way to settle the debt. But as Elisabeth had predicted, Alfred was determined to hang onto his animals.

Soon enough, Peter burst into the house, scowling darkly. He found Elisabeth in the parlour. ''Did you hear what the man said?''

''I couldn't really hear anything. You were too far off.''

''Write a letter to those brothers of yours, lassie. Tonight, if you can manage. They're the only hope we've got. Or else we'll have to go begging for cash.''

''I will,'' Elisabeth promised as Peter said good-night to his family and left to get ready for bed. He was sleeping in the cottage behind the house that her brother-in-law's serving man had once occupied. Elisabeth was growing discontented with what little room there was in the house for all the people who were currently staying. Joe had been given Jeanette's bed, for he was badly injured and required the best mattress they had to offer; so Jeanette had moved onto the pallet of fleeces and woolen blankets that had been Joe's place to sleep before he was hurt while Elisabeth continued to share the attic with her nieces.

She was even more discontented with the dirtiness of the house; in between sewing, doing the never ending chore of laundry which ended on Sundays with ironing the fresh bed linens and began again on Mondays with washing the soiled linens of the previous week, feeding the livestock and keeping their pens clean, cooking meals and doing a hundred other things day in and day out, Elisabeth had no time to scrub the floorboards, clean the laundry room and dairy, and disinfect the house against bedbugs. Bedbugs were becoming a nuisance; Elisabeth often noticed tiny red spots like pinpricks on the arms and legs of her nieces where the insects had supped their blood while the girls slept in infested beds.

Horrified, Elisabeth had smeared the bites with sheep's tallow and instructed the girls to never scratch at the bites, no matter how they itched, or they would get sick. The last thing any of them needed was more illness.

Things would have been easier, had Elisabeth been able to trust Jeanette with certain chores so she would have a chance to get other things done. But after Jeanette scalded herself out of carelessness in the dairy, Elisabeth couldn't see her sister carrying out tasks in the laundry room with hot irons and lye. She thought Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie still too young help with the laundry other than fold clean sheets, so all the laundry of every week fell to her to accomplish.

''Who is taking care of Uncle Peter's farm while he's away?'' Elsie asked as Elisabeth finished pinning the final pleat on her skirt and wasted no time starting to tack the pleat into place with needle and thread.

''I suppose his hired hands will take care of it.''

''Does Uncle Peter have enough men to do everything?''

''I suppose he does, Elsie. What a question. The Burns farm is quite small; they haven't as many animals as we to feed, or fields to tend. Their place is small enough to run almost single-handedly.''

''I've never been to the Burns farm.''

''Well, perhaps you'll get to see it some time. How does your dress feel?''

''It feels quite loose. I'll have to wear an apron underneath my arms to make the bodice fit right.''

Elisabeth smiled. ''Oh, don't complain. You'll grow into it soon. By the time I have to let all these pleats out, you'll be a young lady.''

''Then it will be Lyddie's turn to wear the dress,'' Jeanette remarked.

''Why won't Charlotte get to wear it before me?'' Lyddie asked, fumbling to fix a stitch she had dropped in her knitting.

''Because you'll be living here with Elsie, and I'll be living on our farm with Joe,'' Charlotte said in her blunt, matter-of-fact way. But her small face was sad.

''Whatever do you mean?''

Jeanette and Elisabeth exchanged glances. ''Lyddie,'' Elisabeth said, choosing her words carefully, ''Your Uncle Peter is going to stay at our farm for a few weeks until Joseph is better, because he can't travel home as he is. Then he'll take Joe and Charlotte back to his farm, and you'll stay here, with us. Where you belong.''

''Here, without Charlotte and Joe?'' Lydia was confused.

''Yes. We are your closest family. So you must live with us. But Lochgilphead isn't very far away; you'll be able to see Joe and Charlotte sometimes.''

''But I don't want to stay here! I want to stay with Joe and Charlotte.''

''But Lyddie, we're your family,'' Elsie said.

''Joe and Charlotte are my family, too.''

''But we can't all live together in one small house; there wouldn't be enough room to share. It would be most uncomfortable.''

Lydia began to cry.

Jeanette put an arm around the little girl. ''Lyddie, dear, don't be sad. Don't you want to be with your mam?''

''My mam is dead,'' Lydia replied tearfully.

Up in the attic, Elsie tossed and turned on her straw mattress, unable to sleep. It was a few hours until dawn. The attic was bathed in the cold white light of a full moon, which poured in through the small open window over Elisabeth's bed. Her bed was empty, the light summer quilt thrown to one side. The lamp that Elisabeth liked to keep by her bed was gone. Elsie suddenly became aware of the voices downstairs; Elisabeth was trying to comfort someone who could not be comforted. Elsie got out of bed and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, taking care not to draw the tiniest creak from the floorboards.

She heard her mother's muffled scream, and Elisabeth shushing her. Elsie apprehensively descended the stairs one at a time, gripping the polished wooden rail, hoping she was actually asleep, and that this was a terrible nightmare. Her heart pounded wildly. Jeanette screamed again.

Elsie couldn't take it any more. She started to run downstairs, when without warning, Elisabeth appeared at the bottom of the staircase in her shift and dressing gown, her dark hair falling out of its braid and a scared look on her face.

''Elsie, I'm glad you're awake. I need you to help me with Jeanette.''

Jeanette lay on her bed, shivering uncontrollably beneath several blankets. A rag was stuffed into her mouth, and her burned wrist lay at her side, unbandaged and glistening wetly in the light of a nearby lamp. The room was hot and stuffy; Elisabeth had built up the fire in the range in an effort to make Jeanette's fever break. Perhaps it was working; as Elsie inched nearer to the sick woman's bed, she noticed a few beads of sweat on Jeanette's forehead. There was a towel soaking in a basin of water next to the bed; Elsie wrung out the towel and ran it over her mother's tortured face.

''The doctor told me her burn is infected.'' Elisabeth showed Elsie a glass bottle full of a dark liquid. ''This stuff is called phenol. I was supposed to treat Jeanette's burn with it. The doctor said that it would stop the infection, and that the applying it would only make her burn sting – but look at her arm! What have I done wrong? This can't be real medicine, for it's made the burn far worse!''

Elisabeth was absolutely right. Elsie covered her mouth to keep from being sick at the sight of Jeanette's devastated skin. The carbolic acid had caused the burn to worsen and spread.

''She's going to die,'' Elsie whispered in shock.

''No, she's not,'' Elisabeth said. ''I'm not going to let her. Elsie, please run and wake Peter. I want to see if he knows what to do about this.''

''Elisabeth...'' Elsie felt like fainting.

''Elsie, do as I said!''

Elsie dashed around the house to the cottage where Peter was sleeping. She pounded on the door. ''Uncle Peter! Can you come?''

Almost immediately, the door opened and Peter took Elsie by the shoulders. ''What is it, child? Is it Joe?''

''No,'' Elsie choked, ''It's Mam. I think she's dying.''

Peter eyed Jeanette's wrist critically. ''I think the only thing we can do is wash the burn and bandage it back up, Elisabeth. And don't think of putting any more of that poison on it. Throw the bottle away. Perhaps Fitzgerald didn't know how badly the phenol would affect her. Right now, we must concentrate on getting Jeanette's fever down. If she lasts through the night, she might survive.''

Jeanette moaned pitifully as Elisabeth poured water over her wrist, dried it, and got out the jar of sheep's tallow again to smear it thickly with that before wrapping linen around the burned area. Then there was nothing left to do but keep the fire stoked and wait.

Elisabeth hugged her niece and sorrowfully kissed her on both cheeks. ''You should go back to bed, Elsie.''

''No, you know I can't.''

Elsie made a pot of strong coffee and sat for the next few hours with her aunt and uncle, watching over Jeanette as she slipped into a restless sleep. Her breathing was ragged for a long time, but as the sun came up, it grew calmer.

Joe and the girls awoke and didn't understand why Peter, Elisabeth, and Elsie were crowded around Jeanette. No one told them, for they were too exhausted to speak.

Elsie dressed Charlotte and Lyddie, and sent them out to feed the birds, sheep, and pigs. She knew she must go out to milk the cows and deliver fodder to the other liverstock, but she was afraid to leave Jeanette. After a while, she voiced her concerns to Peter, who got up to carry out Elsie's chores himself. He didn't mind. Peter placed his hand on Elsie's head and smiled into her face. ''You're a good girl, Elsie. Take it easy today, whatever happens. You and Elisabeth both. Alfred and I will see to the farmwork. You two must rest.''

Elisabeth said, ''I wrote the letters to Edward and Alfred last night. But when can I drive to the village to post them?''

''I'll post the letters for you, Elisabeth.''

She took the letters out of a compartment in her writing desk and handed them to Peter. ''I requested that my brothers come as soon as they can manage. But who knows when that will be.''

''But you're certain they'll come?''

''I pray so.''

''And if they don't come, or decide not to buy the animals?''

''Then perhaps the village butcher will buy a few...But that won't rake up enough money to pay the doctor. I'll have to pay Fitzgerald what I can, then think up a way to give him the rest. No doubt I could find work in the village as a maid.''

Jeanette's fever broke towards midday as Elsie was boiling oats in the kitchen for dinner. Elisabeth cried tears of relief as Jeanette sat up in bed and asked for water. Elsie happily brought the water in to her and helped her drink it slowly. Later, she got Jeanette to drink a cup of warmed milk with a small quantity of oats and a spoonful of sugar in it. Jeanette slept again afterwards, and though the burn on her wrist would take until the end of autumn to heal, the infection seemed to have left it, and Jeanette's health was much improved.

Peter rode a horse into the village to post Elisabeth's letters, and by the end of the next week, Edward and Arthur arrived at the Hughes farm to inspect the ragged flock of Shropshires. After much deliberation, they decided to buy eleven of the sheep, though they were a sorry lot, and handed a grateful Elisabeth just enough cash to pay Doctor Fitzgerald with next time she was in the village.

Edward and Arthur couldn't stay at the Hughes farm for long; they rounded the eleven Shropshires into a high-walled cart and headed home with them the same day. Peter watched them go and wondered about getting back to his own farm; Joe was out of bed now, but his broken ribs pained him greatly, and Peter didn't think the boy would fare well on the long ride home.

''Elisabeth,'' he said after Edward and Arthur were gone and Elisabeth was preparing a chicken for supper, ''I must return to my farm. I've been away far too long. It'll soon be time to cut our hay – if there's more than a handful that hasn't been ruined in this incessant rain!'' Peter glanced out the front door at a sky heavy with rainclouds over fields of grass flattened by previous storms. ''But I fear that it would only harm Joe to move him now. Even if we put him into my cart wrapped in blankets. The road is rough.''

''Say no more, Peter. Your children are welcome here for as long as they need to stay. Only – please, sit down. There is something I wanted to speak with you about.''

Peter took a seat at the kitchen table, and Elisabeth poured him a cup of tea.

''Three years ago, I was forced to kill three sheep who'd gotten sick during the winter. They got sick because Alfred didn't keep their hooves trimmed. Alfred was drinking as much then as he is now. He wouldn't help me try to save the sheep; that's why I killed them. They would have died anyway...''

''Yes? Go on.''

Elisabeth began to stammer with nervousness. ''When Alfred found out that I had killed the beasts, he came after me.''

''What did Alfred do to you, Elisabeth?'' Peter set his teacup down with a rattle, fearing the worst.

''He beat me,'' Elisabeth said simply, grimacing at the memory at the painful bruises on her body, and the blood that had poured from her nose and mouth. She could almost taste it now. ''He beat me quite badly.''

Peter was nearly shaking with rage. ''Did anyone else know that he did this? Other than Jeanette and Elsie, of course?''

''Yes. Maryann's husband Dougal knew. Their daughter, Gladys, had been living here to help Elsie and I with all the work that is to be done. She wrote to her father after Alfred beat me, and when he came, he did to Alfred almost worse than he'd done to me!''

''And now that Alfred has lost even more of his precious sheep because he can't care for them, you're afraid that he'll come after you again.''

''Exactly. I hadn't wanted to bother you with these...details, but...''

Peter finished his tea and stood up from the table. ''Dear Elisabeth, I wish you had let me know about all this a long time ago. Though I understand why you weren't keen on talking about it. I haven't seen Alfred all day; I suppose he's passed out dead to the world in that cottage of his. Has he truly been drinking like this for the last three years?''

Elisabeth nodded, twisting her apron in her hands. ''He started drinking after his brother died.''

''I see,'' Peter said thoughtfully.

''Peter, it shames me to speak this way, but I must be honest. Things have been so much easier on the farm since you've been here. Alfred won't do almost any work at all; his drinking is out of hand. All of us are afraid to even speak to him. And look at this place. The barn roof has a big hole in it that I don't trust myself to fix properly, we're not going to have enough to feed our livestock with this winter, and what will we do if the animals fall sick and die for want of food or care that I can't give them? I can't manage the farm alone, with Jeanette the way she is, and Elsie so young.'' Elisabeth was weeping now, from tiredness and shame.

''Oh, lassie.'' Peter gave the young woman his handkerchief to dry her eyes with. How he pitied her. How proud he was of her. Elisabeth was a brave and hardworking woman; Peter hoped that his daughter would grow to be half as brave and hardworking as she. ''I'm going to have a talk with Alfred. And he had better listen to me. I'm afraid to leave you now, after you've told me about what he did to you; I can easily protect you while I'm here, but what's to stop that man from beating you again after I've gone?''

Peter opened the door. Elisabeth sat on the nearest chair, pressing the handkerchief to her face. ''We're done for,'' she whispered. ''I don't see how we'll make it through this winter. We're done for.''

''You're not done for as long as I'm alive, lassie,'' Peter replied, holding his head high, before going out the door to find Alfred. ''Have faith, not fear. Things have a way of working themselves out.''

''Alfred,'' Peter called, knocking on the rough door of his cottage. ''Open up, I know you're in there. I want to talk to you.''

But Alfred didn't answer. Peter, realising that the door was not locked, pushed it open and entered the little house, wrinkling his nose at the staggering smell that accosted him. Had Alfred been insane, to live like this? Countless bottles were strewn throughout the cottage's single room; they lined the dusty window sills, and some were collected in a large broken basket at the foot of Alfred's bed, the canvas mattress of which was streaked with filth and lay askew on the wooden frame. The chipped chamber pot underneath the bed looked as though it hadn't been emptied in days, and the range was covered in dust and clogged with ashes, which spilled from the grating onto the begrimed wooden floorboards. Peter glanced up at the thatched roof, and saw cobwebs lifting in the breeze and traces of black mold which continued down the dingy walls. Thoroughly disgusted, he backed out of the cottage and set about looking for Alfred.

''Elisabeth, are you all right?''

She felt a light touch on her shoulder. Elsie was standing beside her with something of black cloth draped neatly over her arm. Elisabeth had lain her aching head on the kitchen table for a few moments, and perhaps fallen alseep, for when she opened her eyes and sat up again, she felt refreshed and less cast down.

Elsie was worried about her aunt. Elisabeth was little more than skin and bones; she served her family at mealtimes, but rarely sat down to eat. Her eyes had lost their humour, and her mouth was forever set in a thin, unyielding line. She hadn't washed her hair in weeks, and oily strands fell in her pinched face, giving her a tawdry and defeated air.

''I've finished sewing your skirt,'' Elsie said quietly, holding the stuff over her arm out for Elisabeth to see.

''Thank you, Elsie, it looks wonderful.'' Elisabeth lovingly ruffled her niece's hair. ''You're going to be an expert seamstress. Where are Jeanette and the girls?''

''Mam is scrubbing in the dairy, and Charlotte and Lyddie are teaching Joe how to knit in the parlour.''

In spite of herself, Elisabeth laughed. It was a real laugh, her first in a long while. ''That's very good. I look forward to seeing what he makes.'' She was getting up to follow Elsie into the parlour, when Peter appeared in the kitchen, looking unmistakably disturbed.

''Peter, what's the matter? Did you find Alfred?

''Oh, I found him. He was in the barn.''

''Well, what did he say?''

''He's dead.''

''What?'' Elisabeth's handed the skirt back to Elsie.

''Alfred is dead?'' Elsie said in utter confoundment. ''But how?''

Peter cleared his throat. ''Elsie, please leave us. This is nothing for a child to hear.''

Elsie wasted no time getting back to the parlour, where she sat beside Joe and whispered into his ear that Alfred was dead, so as to not frighten Charlotte and Lyddie, who were absorbed in their knitting. Elsie motioned for Joe to be quiet so the two of them could just make out Peter and Elisabeth's conversation.

''He wasn't in his cottage,'' Peter was saying in a low voice. ''So I searched for him. His cart was in the barn, so I knew he had to be somewhere near. And so he was. Where the cows are kept. He's hung himself from a rafter, Elisabeth.''

''Good heavens.'' Elisabeth felt ready to faint. This was too much. She didn't know what to think.

''I cut him down. It's a grisly sight; you needn't come into the barn. Alfred cannot be buried right now, unfortunately, though I don't know how a corpse will keep this time of year! I must drive to the village to alert the coroner, who will come with a policeman to rule the death a suicide. Until then, don't worry about feeding the animals – and keep the children in the house.''

''Of course, Peter. Will you go to the village now?''

''Yes, right away. The sooner this hideous business is over and done with, the better. I'll also stop by the doctor's house to give him his due when I'm there. Oh, and Elisabeth. I will be leaving this place in the morning. You, Jeanette and the children are to come home with me. I dare say there's not a thing left for you here.''

In the parlour, Joe and Elsie looked at each other in surprise.

''Did you hear what Da said?''

''I did.''

''I can't believe it.''

''Neither can I.''

''This might be a good thing,'' Joe reasoned. ''I didn't want to say it, but I'd been worrying about leaving Lyddie here when it was time to go home. She and Charlotte are like sisters! It would be cruel to part them. Now we won't have to.''

''True.'' Elsie remained carefully composed, but inside she bubbled with enough excitement to bring on a fever. They were leaving the farm! Elsie had never been anywhere before. And now they were leaving the farm for good, to live in the countryside near Lochgilphead with Joe and his family. Then Elsie felt a twinge of guilt; the old house surrounding her had been her home for as long as she had lived. She had been born in the house; it and the farm held so many memories. And yet she leapt at the chance to leave it all behind. Elsie was not a sentimental girl; but her lack of sentiment for something like this shocked her a little.

''I hope you will be happy living at our farm, Elsie,'' Joe said diffidently. ''I can't wait to show it to you. It isn't much, but it belongs to us.''

''Why, thank you, Joe. I wish we were already there.''

Elisabeth kept the children confined to the house, as she had promised Peter, and only slipped into the dairy to tell Jeanette what had happened. Jeanette didn't seem to quite register the news of Alfred's suicide. She only nodded indifferently, as if she had been expecting it. Then Elisabeth told her about Peter's plans to take them away from the farm, since it was evident they would no longer be able to keep it. The farm would be sold to pay for Alfred's burial, or sit abandoned until the end of time if no one wanted it in its delapidated state. Elisabeth didn't care either way.

Peter brought the coroner, who came without a policeman, and drove him back to the village a short time later with Alfred's body wrapped in a length of burlap attained from the barn, to be buried in a pauper's grave. The coroner agreed with Peter that no one in their right mind would buy the farm, when there was no hay in the fields, and the barn had a large section of its roof gone. Peter could, however, undoubtedly sell the steam-powered thresher and the mower for a tidy sum, since the machines were far too cumbersome to transport to his own farm. And he made plans to do just that.

There were also the livestock to take into consideration: four Shire horses, six Tamsworth pigs, eight chickens, two sheepdogs, five ducks, a pair of red Dexter cows, and a few Shropshire sheep that could not be left to fend for themselves in a deserted farm. Peter would have to take them to his farm and eventually slaughter or sell the animals he had no room for.

Jeanette, Elisabeth, and Elsie spent a day deciding what to take with them to the Burns farm, and what to leave behind. What they packed into two carts amounted to all the bed linens and blankets in the house, which would be used to cushion Joe on the long journey, the few garments they owned, the family Bible, Francis' old copy of _The Book of the Farm_, a box of wire and wood for the chickens to nestle in, and all the food from the larder they could carry.

When the carts had been loaded and it was almost time to go, Peter caught Elsie holding her black and white cat tightly in her arms and stroking its sleek fur.

''If only I could bring our cats with us,'' Elsie said, on the verge of tears. ''I wanted to say good-bye to all three, but they're hiding from me.''

''Don't worry about those wee beasties, Elsie,'' Peter said kindly. ''They can take care of themselves. However, I'll have to return here at some point to collect more things from the house – and when I do, I'll look for your cats and bring them back with me in a coop, if they want to come.''

Elsie looked hopeful, and put the little cat down. She found Elisabeth, who helped her into the cart she was going to drive. Elsie settled down beside Joe, who lay in a makeshift bed of blankets, with pillows and wadded sheets placed strategically around his head and torso. During the long journey, it would be Elsie's job to keep Joe from jolting around too much. Lydia surprised Elsie by coming to sit in her lap, putting her arms around her sister's neck, while Charlotte sat on the other side of Joseph, contentedly cradling her rag doll.

Each cart was pulled by two horses from the Hughes farm; the horse Peter had brought with him trailed behind his owner's cart with the small flock of sheep, which was mostly kept in check by the dogs.

They arrived at the Burns farm at nightfall two days later, and were greeted by the handful of hired men who lived on the small farm, who had not expected Peter to return with anyone other than his children. Peter had been gone too long from his farm, but it had been managed well in his absence. The hay had been mown from Peter's meagre fields, wheat and honey had been harvested, and cider made.

It was early August, and the night was dry and cool; Elsie peered over the edge of the cart she'd ridden in at a stone farmhouse that was considerably smaller than the one she had been raised in, flanked by a few thatched outbuildings similar to the cottages at home. She did not know how so many people would fit into the little house, but surely they would find a way to be comfortable and happy here.

The farm was to be Elsie's home for the next ten years.


	5. The Beehives

_''She had the same name as me?''_

_''Yes. She had a daughter whose name was Sybil, as well. Her daughter was called Sybbie as a baby.''_

_''How did you know Sybil?''_

_''She was the youngest daughter of Robert Crawley, the fifth earl of Grantham, who owned Downton Abbey when I was housekeeper there. Lady Sybil was such a sweet, kind soul. She left an impression on me. It's been many, many years since her death, and yet I think of her every day, for she was one of the sweetest people I have ever known. Charles loved her. He'd started working at Downton Abbey long before I, and knew the Lady Sybil all her life. I still have a lovely green silk shawl with a long black fringe that Lady Sybil gave me as a Christmas present, along with that photograph, in 1907, two years after I became housekeeper of Downton.''_

_''When did Sybil die?''_

_I held the picture of Lady Sybil to my breast, and my vision clouded with tears. ''It was in 1922, shortly after the birth of her child. Sybil had married Tom Branson, who worked as a chauffeur at Downton Abbey, quite against her father's wishes. They were young, and much in love. Their daughter was born at Downton.''_

_''And what happened to her?''_

_''Oh, the child was raised at Downton. Her father was from Ireland, and would have liked to take her there, but he wasn't allowed to return to Ireland down to something political. So he lived with the rest of us at Downton Abbey, spending as much of his time with the family as he did with us downstairs. Tom was a good man. I was very fond of him. His grief over his wife's death changed him, but he adored their daughter. Miss Sybil Branson died from pneumonia when she was only ten years old. Tom left Downton after that. None of us ever knew where he went; he was just gone one day, and never returned.''_

_I paused to look at Sybille, who sat next to me, wide-eyed. ''That's terrible,'' she breathed. ''It's so sad when young people die.''_

_''That it is, lassie. You know, you do remind me a bit of Lady Sybil. That was my first thought when you introduced yourself to me a few years ago.''_

_''Really? Why, thank you, Elsie.''_

_''Yes. You look a little like her. Your voice and mannerisms are similar to hers. And you're a kind girl just as she was.'' I tucked a strand of dark hair behind Sybille's ear and was rewarded by her grin. So like that of Lady Sybil._

_I withdrew another photograph from the envelope, a large rectangular one edged with silver foil which has rubbed off in some places, also taken on my wedding day. Though Charles and I weren't married in a church, we were not without a bridesmaid and usher and several friends as witnesses._

Chapter Five: The Beehives

On a clear summer morning in 1880, a tall young woman with a rather dour expression walked along a weed-choked country lane within sight of Loch Gilp, carrying a basket heaped with freshly cut yew branches. The basket weighed heavily on her arm, and she shifted it from one side to another as she carefully picked her way through the mire left over from the previous night's storm. The ground was littered with leaves and waterlogged boughs from the ancient overhanging oaks, some of them bearing clusters of hard green acorns. The air was sweet with the smell of wet heather. Tangles of chicory and ox-eye daisies thrived by the wayside, and in the distance, ewes cried out to their lambs on the moor.

Elsie had gone to cut the yew branches barefoot, to spare her shoes, and held her heavy skirts out of the mud with some difficultly. She was wearing a frock of fine black wool with long, tight sleeves and a high-necked bodice festooned with a lot of black crepe, which fastened down the front with a row of imitation jet buttons, in mourning for her uncle, who had died suddenly two days before.

It would have been more comfortable to carry the cumbersome basket in both arms, but Elsie marched down the paludal lane with the basket over one arm and her skirts caught up by her free hand. The mud she trod on was nearly as black as her mourning gear, but she would have to brush her skirts free of it before her family that lived off the farm arrived to pay their last respects before the funeral.

She was sent to collect yew to make a wreath for the door of the farmhouse, decorated with a ribbon of black satin, to let passers-by know that there had been a death in the family. Elsie had spent the last two days helping her family transform the spare interior of the farmhouse for her uncle's wake; the clock in the parlour had been stopped, mirrors had been draped with black crepe, and a calf had been selected to slaughter to feed those who would attend the funeral after it was over. The farmhouse was tidied most thoroughly for visitors, but all other work on the farm would be put on hold until Peter had been safely committed to the earth.

As Elsie came to where the lane ended, she could see the Burns farm on top of a grassy knoll. It was by no means a grand place, boasting only a whitewashed stone house with a low thatched roof and large windows surrounded by three tiny cottages with blue-painted doors, fields sown with barley, a vegetable garden, a stone barn which sheltered the livestock, an old stone well, and the apiary that was responsible for a sizeable portion of the farm's income.

But it was home. Elsie had grown to womanhood there in the company of her mother, aunt, sister, cousins, and the uncle who was now dead. She was proud of the little farm and all its birds and beasts. The last ten years of her life had been filled with contentment. For the most part. As Elsie grew older, she found herself less content with some aspects of life on the Burns farm, notably the expectance that she incorporate a life of work on the farm into her future. As if she had only one possible future, to accept the marriage proposal of her dear cousin Joseph, who would take over the farm now his father was gone, and spend the rest of her years on earth toiling in claggy fields, making cheese, and selling pickled apples and honey and beeswax in nearby Lochgilphead to make ends meet.

Shifting her basket again, Elsie reminded herself that Joe had not actually asked her to marry him yet. But surely he must be aware of what Jeanette, Elisabeth, and even Charlotte had begun to speak of amongst themselves, never to Elsie's face, or to Joe's, but never bothering to converse out of earshot, either.

Elsie had often wondered what she would do if Joe proposed to her one day. How she would react, more than what she would say. But perhaps it wasn't worth wondering about such a thing, when she knew that the proposal would hardly come as a surprise. In eavesdropping on the source of titters in the kitchen, Elsie was forewarned, and had meditated her answer.

It frightened and saddened Elsie a bit to think that Joe – tall, quiet, shy Joe – might ask her to become his wife not for love of her, but for love of his father's farm and the expectance that he find a suitable woman to help him run it.

Nearing the farmhouse, Elsie thought that perhaps – just perhaps – she might marry Joe if she knew he was in truly love with her. Joe was a real gentleman, kind and hardworking. She loved him like a brother. It cost her nothing to say it. In fact, Elsie had said it on several occasions, whilst suspecting that she might grow to love the man more if he ever did or said something to make her believe that he felt more towards her. Marriages of commitment and convenience were all very well, but without love...

Elsie froze as Joe, of all people, pushed his way out of a copse of overgrown boxwoods at the edge of a field not three yards in front of her. He was carrying a brace of ptarmigan in one hand, and the net he'd snared them with in the other. He didn't see Elsie right away. She wondered why Joe had left the house to hunt; as the eldest child, he was supposed to stay with his father's body until the relatives were at the farm for the wake. They couldn't be there already, none of them were expected before tomorrow.

Joe's face was grim. His black jacket and trousers were creased from trekking through wilderness, and his dark auburn hair was damp with perspiration. Elsie felt very sorry for him. Joe heard her sigh and realised he wasn't alone.

''Oh. Hello, Elsie. I didn't know you were there.''

''I just came.''

''Are those branches for the wreath?''

''Aye.''

''Well, come into the house with me. I can carry that basket for you.''

''You don't have to,'' Elsie said, but Joe took it from her anyway. They walked the short distance to the farmhouse side by side, and Elsie didn't dare ask Joe why he'd decided to go hunting when there was fresh bread and honey in the house and a calf was going to be slaughtered in a few days' time.

Elisabeth met them at the door, wrapped in her shawl; though August, the day was not warm, and the sun had gone behind a cloud. She squinted at the sky.

''Looks like we'll get more rain before the day is out. Thank you for going for those branches, Elsie.'' Elisabeth put her black-clad arms around her niece and kissed her on the cheek, then did the same to Joe. He handed her the brace of ptarmigan, and she accepted them without comment.

In the kitchen, Lyddie made tea as Charlotte scrubbed the brass on the range with a piece of leather to make it shine. The table was between them, and on it lay Peter, dressed in his best, but cold and stiff. He accounted for the only corpse Joe, Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie could ever remember seeing. It had taken them a while to get used to the ghastly pallor of the dead man's face, and the strange rosy patches that soon appeared all over him. A pair of copper coins rested on Peter's eyes, and someone had laid a shallow wooden dish of salt on his chest. The kitchen was filled with an ill-defined odour that Jeanette and Elisabeth tried to mask with candles and flowers. Wakes were easier during the cold part of the year; but since Peter had died in late summer, there would be plenty of flowers for his funeral.

Joe cut a few long hazel wands, twisted them deftly together, then bent them into a warped circle, which he secured with twine. Elsie tied vibrant green sprays of yew, dotted with tiny unripe berries, all around the hazel frame until the wreath looked lush and pretty. She found the black satin ribbon, and fixed it in a pert bow at the base of the wreath while Joe drove a nail deep into the front door for the wreath to hang on.

Jeanette came from feeding the animals and looked sorrowfully at the wreath. ''It's just like the wreaths we had at my parents' funerals,'' she said. ''But you've done well, Elsie. Peter deserves as fine a funeral as we can give him.''

''Perhaps I'll go for more flowers later, as we've little to do today.''

''That you should.''

The family sat around the table, holding cups of tea on saucers on their laps since there wasn't room to set them on the table. Jeanette plucked the two fat ptarmigan Joe had snared and put the handfuls of feathers into a burlap sack at her feet.

Joe puffed a pipe in between sips of tea. ''Roast ptarmigan was Da's favourite meal,'' he mused. ''Mother used to make it for him twice monthly with bacon, bread sauce, black pudding, and game chips. The works.''

''Why didn't I know about this?'' Elisabeth demanded lightheartedly. ''In all the years we've lived here, I don't remember roasting a single ptarmigan for your da. He never asked me to, so I didn't know he loved them.''

''He wouldn't have liked to ask. Besides, I think the birds reminded him of Mother. She and Da had their rows, but he missed her so.''

''I suppose she can roast him one such bird in Heaven,'' Jeanette sighed. ''I'd glad you brought these, Joe. Snare a few more, if you wish; we can roast them with the calf after the funeral, and I daresay we've some black pudding in the larder.''

''That would be wonderful, Aunt. Da would be well pleased.''

''Where did you find the ptarmigan?'' Elsie asked.

''On the moor between the house and the loch. They were just grazing in some heather. Why don't you come with me later to look for more?''

''Oh, I don't know, Joe. I'm sure Mam needs me at home.''

''You should go with Joe, Elsie,'' Jeanette said. She looked at Elisabeth and raised her eyebrows in a way that made Elsie furious.

''Joe, I can't go, there's your socks to darn.''

''Could I come with you, Joe?'' Lyddie ventured hopefully, then blushed red as a beet when all eyes in the room turned towards her. Including Elsie's. Elsie stared at her little sister, who was not so little any more. At thirteen, Lyddie was tall and shapely, with a high, clear colour and an abundance of tawny hair that she swept up into a gleaming roll on top of her head, allowing tendrils to escape at her temples and the nape of her neck. Her lips were red and full; her round brown eyes shone in an excitement Elsie couldn't quite comprehend.

''Let her go hunting with Joe if she wants to,'' Elsie posed.

''Only if you or Charlotte goes as well,'' Jeanette said.

''Why, Mam?''

''Lyddie! Don't cross me.''

The girl was stunned. She struggled not to burst into shameful tears.

''Lyddie didn't mean to cross you, Mam,'' Elsie intervened, angry at Jeanette.

Joe drew on his pipe and scowled. ''Now, Jeanette, what's the matter? Of course Lyddie didn't mean to cross you. Let both Elsie and Lyddie help me catch ptarmigan. Charlotte can tag along too, if she wants!''

''No, thank you, if Elsie is going with you, then the task of darning your socks falls to me. Besides, I don't enjoy hunting.''

''That's settled, then,'' Elisabeth snapped. ''Shame on you all for bickering during a wake.'' She sprang up to brush away a large fly that was hovering over the corpse on the table.

Clouds had moved in to obscure the sun, and a fine mist of rain fell, making it hard to see out over the moor. Elsie could have used the weather as an excuse to stay at home with her mending, but she tied a checked kerchief over her hair, and followed Joe and Lyddie into the rocky, sodden expanse of heather and bracken. The sharp smell of vegetation crushed underfoot cleared her head. She hoped it would clear Lyddie's as well. Elsie didn't like the way the girl traipsed after Joe like a hunting dog.

Charging Elsie with his throwing stick and net, Joe scrambled up a boulder, where he stood for a minute or two, scanning the moor for ptarmigan.

''I don't see any. Perhaps the rain is making them hide.''

''We could turn back,'' Elsie suggested. ''And look again later.''

''Where do ptarmigan like to hide?'' Lyddie wanted to know.

''In the forest. But it would be dark there now, with all this rain. Not even worth searching.'' He jumped down from the boulder.

''We can look tomorrow.''

Lyddie had left Elsie's side and run off several yards away to scale a different boulder, one which far surpassed the one Joe had climbed in size. ''Perhaps I can see some birds from this point,'' the girl called against a sudden gust of wind from the loch that smelled of salt and felt warm as blood on Elsie's face.

''Lyddie, don't try to go up that,'' Joe shouted, noting how difficult it was for Lyddie to climb in her long skirts. ''Girls shouldn't climb rocks.'' Here, he winked at Elsie. ''Listen to me! You'll rend your skirt at the very least!''

But the girl ignored Joe, or didn't hear him over the wind.

''Lyddie!'' Elsie cried, rushing towards the enormous boulder. Her sister was nearly at the top. ''Please come down! Why don't you listen?''

Elsie blinked the rain out of her eyes – and in that very moment, she heard Lyddie scream as she lost her footing and skidded down the mossy side of the boulder, which was slick with condensation. The girl landed on a patch of heather before Elsie and Joe could reach her. She sobbed in pain, becoming aware of the scrapes on her chin, hands, and wrists. One of her fingers was bleeding freely; the boulder had torn away a nail in the fall.

Joe and Elsie were gentle as they helped Lyddie to her feet and brushed bits of heather off her clothing. Lyddie gasped in horror when she saw the damage the boulder had caused her dress. It was practically in tatters.

''Oh, no,'' Lyddie moaned. ''My dress is ruined. Mam will skin me alive!''

''It looks all right in the back,'' Elsie said helpfully. ''The dress can be fixed, the tears aren't that bad. Mam will be more concerned about all those awful scrapes you've got.'' She bound Lyddie's bleeding finger with a hankerchief from her apron.

The sky darkened and heavier drops of rain began to fall. Joe pulled his cap down over his ears and said annoyedly, ''Come on, girls. Back to the house. We shouldn't have come out here, there's nothing to catch, and if we hadn't come, Lyddie wouldn't have busted herself falling. She's lucky she didn't break any bones.'' Joe remembered his dangerous plunge through the barn roof a decade before all too well. ''Why did you have to climb that boulder anyway, Lyddie?''

''I just wanted to look for ptarmigan, same as you.''

''It was a stupid thing to do,'' Joe continued crossly.

Tears slid down Lyddie's cheeks, mingling with the rain. Elsie put an arm around her sister.

''Joe, she was only trying to help you. No need to be so cruel.''

Lyddie sniffed. Elsie took her kerchief off and arranged it strategically around the girl's shoulders. ''There, Lyddie. Perhaps Mam won't notice your dress right away. We haven't got a lot of black cloth left, but I can take the crepe off my bodice and sew it onto yours so the tears aren't obvious.''

''Oh, Elsie, would you really?''

''Of course I would.''

The sisters embraced, and managed to get back to the farmhouse well before the rain had soaked them through. Luckily for Lyddie, her mother was feeling tired and a bit addled, as she often did, and had gone to lay down. Elisabeth and Charlotte stood in the kitchen, quietly discussing the funeral collation as Joe sat moodily across from his father, filling his pipe with tobacco. Elsie took Lyddie into the parlour and shut the door behind them. Lyddie found the sewing basket, and Elsie unbuttoned and removed the bodice of her frock so she could snip away the black threads that tacked the ruffles and swags of crepe to the front.

''Lyddie,'' Elsie began tentitavely, holding the folds of crepe up to her sister's dress in different ways, to see how it should be sewn on, ''Exactly why did you climb that boulder? You didn't have to.''

''I was trying to impress Joe.''

A surprised look crossed Elsie's face. ''Oh. Well. At least you're admitting to it.''

''Do you think I'm terribly stupid, Elsie?''

Elsie started pinning the crepe onto Lyddie's torn bodice. ''I don't think you're stupid. But why did you feel the need to impress him?''

Lyddie hesitated before speaking. ''Elsie, have you heard what Mam and Elisabeth have been saying about you and Joe?''

''Aye, I have.''

''Do you want to marry him?''

Elsie's blue eyes flashed. ''I don't know.''

''Have you two talked about it?''

''We have not. There, that looks well enough, take off your bodice so I can sew.''

''Do you love Joe?''

''Lyddie, what a question. Of course I love Joe. I love him as I love you.''

Lyddie seemed to sigh in relief. Elsie put her bodice back on and gave her a hard look.

''What about you, dearie? Do you love Joe?''

''Sometimes I think I do. Often. But please never tell him that!''

Elsie rolled her eyes. ''I won't tell him. But perhaps you should.''

''Should I? What if he thinks me too bold?''

''I'm sure he won't think that,'' Elsie said softly, biting off a piece of thread. ''Just wait for the right moment to tell him.''

Lyddie heaved a forlorn sigh. She said, ''Thank you for your advice, Elsie. But why are you encouraging me? It's you Joe cares for. You saw how he wanted you to go hunting with him today, and not me. I intruded, and I'm sorry. Falling off that boulder was the Lord's way of punishing me for my jealousy.''

Elsie was taken aback. She said quickly, ''Oh, Lyddie, what utter nonsense!'' But something told her the girl was right.

Some of Elsie's aunts, uncles, and cousins arrived the next day; the rest came the day after. Since tradition dictated that all work on the farm be stopped until after the funeral, there wasn't a lot for anyone to do; the livestock still had to be fed, and the cows milked, but the fresh milk was boiled up and drank quickly, because they could not make it into cheese, and it wouldn't keep otherwise during the long, mild days of late August.

There were now so many people bustling about the farm – Elsie's aunts Maryann and Alice, their husbands and daughters, Peter's siblings, their spouses and their children – that the three cottages were put to good use. Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie spent a significant amount of time sweeping out the cottages, cleaning out the ranges within, and making sure the flues were functioning properly. Joe went hunting again and brought back seven ptarmigan and three rabbits, which Jeanette and Elisabeth gladly made into pies to share with their family.

With so much going on and so many lively voices, Elsie could almost forget that it was a funeral her family had come for, and not the keeping of a high holiday. Everyone was clad in somber black from head to toe.

The guests had brought along their own bedrolls, which they put down on benches in the cottages, and a good many bottles of wine and sloe gin to pass around while doing so. Elsie was pleased at all the kind words that were spoken of Peter; he had been a fine man, and had many friends. His death had been announced in the parish, and several men who had known Peter visited the farm to view the body, enjoy a cup of spirits, then leave, promising to be at the funeral.

Elsie didn't know her extended family well. She often found herself having to ask someone to introduce themselves. She had never met Nellie and Jamesina, the twin daughters of her aunt Maryann, who were a few years older than Elsie but as of yet unmarried. They looked so much alike, Elsie couldn't tell them apart.

They invited Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie to walk through the apiary with them to inform the bees of Peter's passing at their mother's request. Elsie had heard of this ancient tradition, and was interested in seeing how it was done. In olden days, bees were said to be the messengers of the Little People; when someone died, the bees had to be told, so they could pass the news along to the Little People, lest they mistake the spirit of the deceased for a nameless, wandering spirit, and tempt it to join them.

Elsie watched as Nellie and Jamesina bent over the beehives and whispered to the bees, which buzzed contentedly in the mellow late afternoon air. They placed a black strip of crepe over each of the hives to complete the ritual.

''I don't care for funerals,'' Nellie sighed, twirling a piece of clover she had picked between her thumb and forefinger. ''They're too noisy. But I was ever so lucky my employer let me off for a night. I'll have to travel back to Lochgilphead tomorrow and miss the funeral. Now was the only time they could spare me.''

''What do you do?'' Elsie asked.

''I'm a maid in an old professor's house on the far side of town.''

''How long have you worked there?''

''Close to four years.''

''What's it like?''

Nellie smiled indulgently. ''My, you're full of questions, aren't you? The job has its perks. I work long hours every day, but I don't especially mind it. I'm given a room to live in, three meals a day, and dress material.''

''You make it sound better than it is,'' Jamesina snorted. ''You said you get three meals a day. But what do they give you for those meals, other than burnt porridge? And you get five minutes to eat. That professor works you like a horse, and gives you hardly anything to eat, that's why you're so awfully thin!''

''I didn't enter service for the food,'' Nellie said simply, throwing her clover to the ground. The girls began walking back towards the farmhouse.

''Then why did you enter service?'' Charlotte asked.

Nellie shrugged. ''I suppose I wanted to try out another sort of life. Milking cows and helping sheep give birth isn't for me.''

''I see,'' Elsie said. ''Do you like working on your father's farm, Jamesina?''

''It's as good as any other work.''

''No, it isn't.'' Nellie laughed bitterly. ''I'm good at my job, and some day I'll be a lady's maid. I'm already looking hard for such a place. All you'll ever be is a fat farmer's wife with a dozen screaming brats.''

Jamesina was clearly offended. ''Don't you ever plan to marry?''

''I might. Some day. If the right man comes along. But I want something better for myself. There can be more to life than hard work on a dirty farm, and a child every year.''

''How does one enter service?'' Elsie inquired nonchalantly. Lyddie stared at her, and Elsie winked.

''You have to be on the lookout for an advert. Senior servants put them in shop windows, and the like, and wait for someone to come along and pick them up. And someone always picks them up. Being a servant isn't easy, but it's a good and respectable thing with the perks I mentioned, and more as you advance.''

Elsie nodded.

The farmhouse was lit brightly by a profusion of candles and lamps; new flowers had been brought in from the moor, and stood in vases and pots all over the place. Elsie noticed with some apprehension that the majority of her uncles were drunk; they had begun to sing an old and sad song, and did so with great passion while the women went around with platters of food and cups of wine, offering what could have been the entire contents of the larder to the besotted guests.

All this time, Peter's body lay on the table. Elsie noticed that his tongue had begun to protrude from his mouth. She shut her eyes and pressed her hands against her sternum. She had been hungry and ready to eat, but now her appetite was gone.

''Elsie, dear, are you all right?'' Elisabeth pushed a tin cup of wine into her niece's hands. The older woman's eyes were shining, and Elsie guessed that she, too, had had more than her fair share of wine. But she could trust Elisabeth to stay sober; it would never do for a woman to become intoxicated. Drinking was men's sport.

''I'm all right,'' Elsie replied, accepting the cup. She took a little sip and her mouth was filled with the taste of last year's blackberries.

''This is very good.''

''Aye. And drink up, lassie. But not too much. Your uncle Peter always looked forward to family gatherings...'' She stopped in mid-sentence, and Elsie saw that Elisabeth's eyes were shining not with mild drunkenness, but with tears.

Elsie sipped at her wine again, feeling it already go to her head.

''I miss him so,'' Elisabeth sniffed. She poured a finger of potent sloe gin into an innocent-looking teacup and smiled sheepishly. ''Peter saved our family from the workhouse or Lord knows what other fate, you know.''

''I know. He was a good man.''

''That he was.'' Elisabeth wiped a tear from her eye. ''A very good man. And his son is much like him. Where is Joseph?''

''I haven't seen him.''

''Oh, there he is.'' Elisabeth waved to her nephew. He was sitting on a small barrel someone had brought into the kitchen, and raised his cup to Elisabeth and Elsie when he caught them looking at him. Joe hadn't drunk as much as his male relatives, and seemed fed up with the loud singing to his right. He got off the barrel and went over to Elisabeth and Elsie.

''Good evening. Enjoying yourselves much?''

''It's a fine wake,'' Elsie admitted, casting her eyes about the room.

''I expect the funeral will be even finer, if you know what I mean. You see Alice's husband over there? I wager he's had an entire bottle of that wine to himself tonight, and then some. He'll be out before long.''

''Will that make the singing less loud?'' Elsie asked, smiling over her cup.

Joe gave a weak laugh. ''I don't know. It might. What are the girls up to?'' He looked over to Charlotte and Lyddie, who were sharing a plate of food in a corner of the room and carrying on an animated conversation. ''You mended Lyddie's dress beautifully, and made your own plainer in the process.''

Elsie glanced down at her bodice. It was very plain indeed.

''But don't worry. You'll be allowed to go into half-mourning in a month, and wear your lace collar.''

''I don't care about that, Joe.''

''You don't?'' Joe found a half-empty bottle and decanted his cousin more of the delicious blackberry wine.

''I truly don't. Why must you even mention it?''

Joe rubbed the back of his neck ashamedly. ''Forgive me, Elsie. I don't know what's gotten into me.''

''Wine,'' Elisabeth suggested aptly.

''What? I've had but two cups, Aunt.''

Suddenly, Elsie realised she didn't feel well. Her ears were ringing with the sound of her uncles' ongoing songs, and her nose was assaulted by the heavy scent of tallow candles mingled with the odour of death, which reminded her of the tough liquorice candy her father had once brought her from the village many years ago.

''You want to take a little walk with me, Joe?''

''Will Lyddie be joining us?''

''Not if you don't want her to.''

They drained their cups of wine and left Elisabeth to wander the farmyard in the dying sunlight. Elsie felt as though her senses were on fire. The wine, though not particularly strong, had certainly gone to her head. It was a cool, still night. They could hear chickens clucking softly in their coop as they settled down to roost, and the lows of cows in the barn.

''Are you happy, Elsie?'' Joe asked.

''Whatever do you mean, Joe?''

''I mean: is this farm where you see yourself in the years to come?''

Elsie was shaken by the question, but refused to show it. She said playfully, ''Can you read my mind?''

''Yes. That is, I think I can. You know, I do see you every day, and I think I know you quite well.''

''I agree.''

They fell silent for a time. Then Elsie said, ''Joe? What would you think if I were to go into service?''

Joe raised his eyebrows. ''In the army?''

''No! As a maid, in Lochgilphead.''

''Are you telling me that you've found a place there?''

''No, I haven't.'' Elsie twisted her hands together. ''But I've been thinking that perhaps I should. Find a place, that is.''

''Why?''

Elsie fumbled for words. How had Nellie put it? ''I suppose I want to try out another sort of life.''

Joe didn't quite know what to say. He let out a long breath.

''You're not angry with me, Joe? Do I sound silly?''

''Not at all, lassie. My dearest Elsie.'' He took her hand gently in his own. ''You must know that I want the best for you.''

Elsie was touched. ''Thank you, Joe. I want the best for you, too.''

''Da had always hoped that you and I would marry when we were old enough.''

''Aye, I know. And he wasn't the only one.''

''And what do you think?''

''About marriage? I think very highly of marriage. But I would like to go another way. At least for a time.'' Elsie found herself at a loss for words again. ''I must think things through...''

''Yes, of course,'' Joe muttered, trying to conceal his embarrassment. ''There is no hurry. Have you told anyone else about this idea you have? To work as a maid?''

''No. I must admit, I am a little afraid of telling Mam and Elisabeth; they might laugh at me.''

''They won't laugh at you, Elsie. I wouldn't let them laugh if they did. Tell Elisabeth about your plans first, then I'll help you look for a place in town.''

Elsie stared at Joe. ''You would help me?''

''I would. Isn't that what family is for?''

Elsie felt her heart quicken. Joe meant the offer, and had, in so many words, unknowingly answered Elsie's question, as to whether he truly loved her; for he was prepared to help her leave his side for a while, or perhaps forever, if it meant she would be better off somehow.

Elsie squeezed Joe's hand. ''If I find that service isn't for me, I can always come back to the farm.''

''You'll always be welcome.'' They retreated to the farmhouse, where they shared bread with honey and rabbit pie whilst savouring more wine. By midnight, the merry-making in the house came to an end, for the funeral was tomorrow morning.

Peter Burns was interned in a shallow grave in back of the parish church, and no less than fifty men, women, and children came to see him buried. Each person tossed a handful of earth onto the shrouded body before the grave was filled in and bricked over. Peter's eldest brother played the bagpipes, causing most to weep.

After the funeral, many returned to the Burns farm to eat and drink and chat. The calf was roasted over a large fire in the farmyard, tended by Jeanette and Elisabeth, filling the air with a strong, savoury fragrance. Several small children ran in and out of the house, crowing in delight with some game.

Elsie and Lyddie busied themselves in the kitchen, kneading dough for currant buns on the newly scrubbed table to deal out to the members of her family as favours when they went home. They wore long aprons and had lengths of burlap wrapped around their arms to protect their black frocks from becoming streaked with flour. Lyddie stopped kneading to stoke the range, and pushed a piece of hair out of her face with the back of her hand.

''Where did you go with Joe last night, Elsie?''

''Nowhere. We just walked in the yard.'' She hacked her dough into pieces to shape into little balls, which would be brushed with milk and positioned in a heated compartment of the range to bake for half an hour.

''What did you talk about?''

''Nothing special, Lyddie.''

''Did he ask you to marry him?'' Lyddie let her voice drop, in case anyone was listening.

''He did not.'' Elsie's brow knitted in thought. ''Lyddie – I was planning to speak with Elisabeth or Mam about this first, but – what would you think if I were to leave the farm?''

Lyddie looked mildly shocked. ''Leave the farm? Why?''

''I want to look for work as a maid in Lochgilphead.''

''But why? We could use the extra money, but we don't _need_ it. We're not poor.''

''That is right, but I want to do it anyway. I can still send my wages home. I've been thinking about what Nellie said yesterday about how she wants to make something good for herself – how she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life on a farm – and, well, I feel the same way.''

''Why didn't you tell me this before?''

''I don't know. Perhaps I didn't understand exactly what I felt until Nellie put it into words for me.''

''Elsie, I want to enter service, too.''

Elsie looked up from her dough. She held a currant she'd been about to pop into her mouth in mid-air. ''You do? Are you sure?''

''Sure I'm sure.''

''Why?''

''For the same reason as you! Why else?'' Lyddie laughed uproariously, and soon Elsie joined her. To their left, the children scrambled out the door again, called by their mother. Elisabeth sidled inside, smiling kindly at each one of them.

''You girls sound as though you're having fun,'' Elisabeth said, drawing closer.

Elsie composed herself and told Elisabeth of the plans she and Lyddie had to leave the farm.

''You dears don't have to do that,'' her aunt whispered, saddened.

''I know. For the reasons you're thinking of. But we do have to leave. Joe said he'd help me find a place in town, I'm sure he'd do the same for Lyddie.''

''Very well, but we had better talk this over with your mam first.''

Elisabeth Mary Hughes went to work as a junior maid in a crumbling brick town house owned by a tailor and his wife in September of that year, a few weeks prior to her nineteenth birthday. Joe and Elsie had been in Lochgilphead to purchase things for the kitchen, when a yellow flyer stuck to a shop window caught Joe's eye. The flyer had been posted by a Mrs Wallace, the housekeeper of a place just outside of town which was, in her own words, ''in urgent want of two house maids''.

Joe pressed a bright coin into his cousin's palm so she could take a cab to the house so she could speak to the housekeeper; but Elsie, white-faced with hope and trepidation, dug deeply into her purse, insisting to pay the cab fare herself if Joe would wait in town for her. During the long drive to the town house, Elsie gripped the yellow flyer in her hand and trembled with nervousness.

Elsie found the servants' entrance to the house and, finding the door slightly ajar, went inside. A woman wearing a faded calico dress and a lace-edged linen cap greeted her kindly enough in the hallway.

''Please,'' Elsie said, pitching her voice low so it wouldn't tremble as her hands were almost certainly doing, ''are you the housekeeper?'' She held out the flyer.

The woman snickered. ''Certainly not. Wait here a moment, and pinch some colour into your cheeks. I'll bring Mrs Wallace.''

Mrs Wallace was a small, rather swarthy woman in her middle years who looked nothing like a servant. She bore herself haughtily, and was so well-dressed that Elsie might have mistaken her for the house's mistress. The housekeeper fairly glared at Elsie as she took the flyer from her hand.

''How old are you, girl?''

''Nearly nineteen.''

''Are you healthy?''

''Yes, Mrs Wallace.''

''Show me your teeth.''

Past embarassment, Elsie bared her teeth for the housekeeper, who walked around her in a slow circle, taking in every detail of the younger woman's plain half-mourning clothes, the brown and white checked shawl draped over her thin shoulders, the bonnet made of straw that Elsie had plaited herself and adorned with black satin ribbons, and the badly scuffed boots on her feet.

''Do you live in town?''

''I live on a farm not far from here.''

''I see. Have you ever worked in a house like this before?''

''No, Mrs Wallace.''

''Who are you in mourning for?''

''My uncle.''

''What was the cause of his death?''

''He died in his sleep,'' Elsie lied, surprised at the question. What business was it of Mrs Wallace, to know how her uncle had died? Elsie couldn't bear to recall the horrifying paralysis which had gripped the left side of Peter's body one day as he inspected the hoof of his favourite horse. Joe had been nearby; he had heard his father cry out, a strange, gutteral noise, and saw him slump to the ground. Joe brought his father inside the house, where he drew his last breath hours later.

''So you haven't had any illness in your house.''

''No, Mrs Wallace.''

Mrs Wallace nodded gravely. ''Good. Because two of our maids recently died of a fever within these very walls. To explain why we are hiring.''

Elsie felt her blood run cold.

''You have the job,'' Mrs Wallace said, giving her back the flyer. ''Be here in the servants' hall tomorrow morning before six.'' Without another word, the housekeeper sauntered off, her taffeta skirts sighing on the polished floorboards.

Elsie took a deep breath, and made her way back to the edge of town, not needing to call another cab, since she now knew exactly where the town house was located. She found Joe in the general store, where he was buying a little bundle of dried tobacco for his pipe.

''I got the job, Joe. Thank you so much for helping me.''

''When do you start?''

''Tomorrow morning.''

''So soon?''

Joe helped Elsie into the cart. They drove home in silence. That evening, after a delicious supper of leftover roast veal and potatoes, Jeanette and Elisabeth helped Elsie to pack her things, though there wasn't a lot to pack. Elsie had three dresses to her name, four sets of undergarments, a wrapper, her straw bonnet, and an assortment of woolen things for cold weather.

Lyddie sat sadly on Elsie's bed, sipping a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Elsie remembered the flyer, which she'd put in the pocket of her apron. She sat down beside her sister, and showed her the piece of paper.

''Now you'll know where to go to apply for a job,'' Elsie whispered. ''They want two maids.''

''They'll never hire Lyddie if they know she's your sister,'' Jeanette said. ''Most places don't like family members working together.''

Lyddie looked up at her. ''So what do I do?''

''I suggest that you keep that piece of paper and wait a while before applying. And when you do apply, don't tell that Mrs Wallace that your surname is Hughes. Tell her you're called Lyddie Burns.''

''That sounds like a good plan,'' Elisabeth agreed. ''Oh, Elsie, you must wear your best dress tomorrow, to make the best impression on the staff. There's no need for you to go about in mourning clothes any more.'' She rummaged in the old walnut wardrobe that Elsie, Charlotte, and Lyddie shared until she appropriated a full skirt of dark green cotton and the bodice that best complimented it, made out of the same fabric. ''I've always said that green is your colour.''

''Why don't you do something new to your hair?'' Lyddie suggested, taking her teacup to the kitchen sink.

''Like what?'' Elsie giggled nervously, holding the green bodice against her cheek. It smelled faintly of the bouquets of lavender her mother hung to dry in the wardrobe to freshen the garments.

Joe and Charlotte returned from feeding the animals. They removed their muddy boots and beat them together to knock off some of the mud before leaving them beside the door.

''Charlotte, where is that new manual that Cousin Jamesina gave you?'' Lyddie called.

''Whatever sort of manual would she have given you?'' Jeanette asked, blushing. She hadn't seen a great many publications in her life; there was a family Bible, and her husband's old copy of _The Book of the Farm_ in the house, but Jeanette had never so much as glanced at either of them. She had learned her letters late in life, and didn't particularly care for reading.

''It's called _The Queen_, Mam. I don't know where Jamesina got it from, but she brought it to show me and then left it here. It tells you about all kinds of things, including the latest fashions in London.''

Elisabeth said, ''Aye, let's have a peek. I can't imagine what they might be wearing in London, it's so far away.''

Charlotte lifted the mattress off her bed and withdrew a battered, but reasonably up-to-date issue of _The Queen_. The family clustered around to view its rough, greyish pages printed with meticulously detailed ink drawings of fine ladies sporting bustles of startling proportions underneath long, dragging gowns with impossibly tiny waists. Lyddie drew their attention to the hairstyles some of the women wore.

''That's pretty, don't you think?'' Elsie pointed to a picture of a lady in evening wear whose abundant tresses were done up in a complicated twist, frizzled out in front so that it swept her brow in reverse S-shapes, and decorated roses.

''I agree,'' Elisabeth said with a giggle, taking Elsie's face in her hands. ''What do you think, Joe?''

Joe cocked his head and grinned. ''I think it would suit Elsie well.''

''How about it, my dear? Would your like your hair frizzled like this?''

Elsie shrugged shyly. ''I'm not sure. Do you know to do it?''

''It explains exactly how to do it on the next page.''

''Then let's give it a try!'' Elsie pulled several brass filigree pins from her hair, and it tumbled down to her waist in loose natural curls. Elisabeth brushed her niece's hair until it glowed like brown satin as Charlotte ran for the sewing scissors.

''To think,'' Jeanette remarked, ''That this is our last night together.''

Joe felt a shameful prickling behind his eyes, and ducked out of the room unnoticed, leaving the women of his family to chatter and fuss over Elsie. He lit a lantern and walked to the barn to smoke a pipe in the company of the drowsy horses, dismally contemplating how he would miss Elsie when she was gone. Her employers weren't likely to allow her many days off so she could visit home.

In the house, Elsie peered into a looking glass, pleased with her new hairstyle.

''You don't look like a farm girl any more,'' Elisabeth whispered, near to tears. ''Oh, lassie, I hate to see you go. And Lyddie! If she gets that job, who knows when we'll see either of you again? You must write home.''

''I promise to write you long letters each and every day,'' Elsie said solemnly. She dressed herself in the dark green frock, a lace collar, and her straw bonnet with its long black ribbons, and checked her reflection again. She felt an odd mix of emotions – happiness, sadness, hope, anxiousness, and when she thought about Joe, guilt – and tears welled in her eyes.

Joe came back inside to find Elsie in Elisabeth's arms, sobbing quietly, while Jeanette looked on with sadness and jealousy, thinking for propriety's sake that _she_ should have been the one on whose shoulder her daughter cried; but Jeanette and Elsie hadn't been close for many years. Elisabeth was scarcely ten years Elsie's senior, and not old enough to be her mother; but she had fulfilled that role in Elsie's life, and it would be Elisabeth, even more than Charlotte and Lyddie, whom she loved with all her heart, that Elsie would miss the most when she began her new life in the tailor's house in Lochgilphead.

I hope you guys liked this new chapter! Please R&R! Chapter Six is coming soon!


	6. The Brick Town House

Author's Note: I apologise in advance for the unusually short chapter! I've had a ton of problems with my computer lately, which caused me to lose the full version of this chapter. Rather than spend a week or more re-writing the last half of it, I decided to post what I still had, and make the rest into a new chapter. So, the next chapter might be kind of short as well, but it will be interesting, and a pleasure to write! Thanks for all the lovely reviews I've gotten so far!

_''You were a lovely bride, Elsie,'' Sybille said, unbuttoning her cardigan and letting it slide down her thin shoulders. The fire had died down, leaving the sitting room warm as an oven. ''What's in that bouquet you were carrying?''_

_''Lily of the valley. They were Anna's favourite flower. That's Anna, right there.'' I pointed to a petite blonde woman wearing a loose summer dress with a striped pattern standing next to me in the picture. ''Anna Bates. She was head housemaid at Downtown. We worked together for many years. Lilies of the valley were her favourite flower. She lived with her husband John in a cottage in Downton that had a little garden full of them. When I told her that Charles and I were getting married, she insisted on us having the wedding while the flowers were still in their prime, just so she could bring me that lovely big bouquet of them.''_

_I could almost smell the heady fragrance of the lillies of the valley, which was cloying in the little courthouse as Charles and I spoke our vows. But I didn't mind. Anna had tied the bouquet with a velvet ribbon and took her place a few steps behind us with Isobel, Richard, Daisy, her husband Paul, Tom, and four-year-old Sybil, my little bridesmaid. Tears spring to my eyes when I think of Sybil in her lavender muslin frock and a garland of early roses in her burnished curling hair, clutching her father's hand and staring admiringly at Charles._

_Oh, Lady Mary and her young son, George, attended our wedding as well. They arrived late because Master George had thrown a tantrum. He inherited his mother's bullheadedness, that I will say. But Charles was so happy to see Mary and the lad._

_''Was Anna's husband not at the wedding?'' Sybille asked._

_''He was not, unfortunately. And I never knew why. Anna told me that she and her husband had an argument – one bad enough to prompt John to go away for a while. I don't think she expected him to return.'' _

Chapter Six: The Brick Town House

On a pearl-grey morning in the second week of September, Elsie stood before the black-painted oaken door of the side entrance used by the servants who lived in the brick town house. The entrance was well hidden behind a gnarled and spreading stand of century-old lilacs, the heavy blooms of which had faded, and added a sweetish-musty note to the fresh morning air.

Holding the bundle that contained her clothing and a few personal items protectively to her chest, Elsie appraised the house of her new employer – her first employer – a tailor whose name, she remembered, was MacGregor. His place was nothing to brag about; it was tall and narrow and rather run-down in appearance, with several slates missing from the roof, and surrounded by a brick wall covered with ivy that had a tall iron lamp post at one corner. Still, it held a certain kind of charm. Elsie thought that the house must be as old as the lilacs that pressed against its weathered walls; perhaps the bushes had been planted as soon as the house was built. She had no way of knowing if the house had been in the tailor's family for years, or if it belonged to a country lord and MacGregor and his wife were just its tenants.

Just a short while ago, Elsie had been sitting beside Joe as he drove her in the cart towards Lochgilphead and her new life as a servant. They had spoken little, for there had been little to say. Elsie's thoughts returned to the golden afternoon of the previous day, when she and Joe had gone on a ramble by themselves along the boundaries of the farm on which they had passed their childhoods. They visited an unruly thicket of blackberry canes arching over a rushing stream close to the moor, and picked a mound of the tart fruit, which they put into Joe's cap to eat as they walked. After a time, Joe and Elsie lay down on the grassy side of a small hill, where they basked in the bright sun and regarded one another seriously.

A fragrant tangle of purple vetch was growing nearby; Joe knew how Elsie favoured purple flowers, and twisted some of the vines together to make a crown, which he placed on his cousin's head. She smiled and pulled a blossom down to sniff delicately at it.

Joe touched Elsie's hair, which was in a long braid down her back. ''You have beautiful hair,'' he said. ''I've hardly ever seen you with it loosened.''

''Would you...like me to loosen it?''

''Please do, Elsie. So I'll have something lovely to remember you by when you're gone.''

Elsie tittered. ''Oh, Joe, you make it sound as though I'm dying! You've known me all your life. Don't you have enough lovely things to remember me by without making me take my hair down?'' But she slipped off the blue silk ribbon that held the braid together, and shook it out, so that her hair tumbled over her shoulders, hazel in the setting sun. Joe was delighted. He came closer and began to run his fingers through Elsie's hair, sometimes lifting a piece gently to his lips.

Elsie felt herself unexpectedly roused by this; she put a blackberry into Joe's mouth, and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her right on the mouth, slowly, sensually. In between kisses, Elsie let out a soft cry; nothing in her experience had prepared her for this. She was overjoyed. Without quite realising what she was doing, Elsie let her hands drift to Joe's cambric shirt, where she undid several of the tiny buttons at his throat. Joe undid the remaining buttons so that his shirt slipped partway off his shoulders, exposing his sleeveless under-shirt, and then paused to stare in alarm at Elsie, who had unfastened her bodice. Their eyes met, and suddenly they both felt frightened and ashamed.

A piece of grass was caught in Elsie's hair; Joe plucked it away. Breathing hard, he said, ''My God, Elsie. What were we thinking? What if someone had seen us just then?'' He set about putting his clothes right as Elsie, mortified, followed suit. She re-braided her hair neatly and tied it at the end with the silk ribbon.

Joe got to his feet. ''How do I look?'' He turned around so Elsie could check for telltale grass stains on his grey shirt and trousers.

Glowering, Elsie cast off her crown of purple vetch. ''You look fine, Joe. As though none of this ever happened.''

''It was my fault.''

''It wasn't you're fault, Joe. At least, not any more than it was mine.''

''What if we had been rash enough to go all the way? What if I had gotten you with child?'' He retrieved his cap from the ground, scattering berries.

Elsie began to walk quickly away in the direction of the farmhouse. ''Then you would have gotten me with child, and I would have had no choice but to stay at the farm and become your wife.''

''Elsie, forgive me,'' Joe begged.

''There's nothing to forgive. I'm leaving early tomorrow, and we might not get to see each other again for a long time; so let's just forget about what we almost did.''

''Fair enough,'' Joe replied gruffly, clutching his cap. But he knew he would never forget.

Neither would Elsie. Forcing all thoughts of Joe from her mind, she drew herself up to her full height and knocked on the servants' door. It didn't open at once, as she had expected. After a few minutes, Elsie knocked again, harder. Her knuckles smarted from contact with the rough wood. More minutes passed. Elsie ventured to creep around the side of the house; perhaps there would be a window through which she would be seen.

Smoke curled from two of the four different-sized chimneys sticking up from the roof of the house; she smelled both coal and woodsmoke, and went in the direction of the woodsmoke, figuring it would lead her to the part of the house where the kitchen was located. The kitchen would certainly be occupied this time of day; it was just past six o' clock, and time to cook breakfast for the tailor's family.

Before she got to the back of the house, Elsie heard a female voice shouting orders in an accent she'd never heard before, and what sounded like a child crying. She found the door to the kitchen, which was painted black like the door to the servants' entrance and carefully concealed from the road by more lilacs and other shrubbery. The door was almost halfway open; shyly keeping to one side, Elsie peeked into the kitchen just in time to witness a woman in a red pin striped apron cuff a boy no older than seven or eight hard around the ears. The boy howled as the woman told him off in a foreign tongue.

Elsie felt sorry for the boy, but put on an indifferent face, and stepped inside the kitchen. She saw what caused the havoc; the boy had broken one or two serving dishes, which lay in sharp fragments all over the uneven stone floor.

''I beg your pardon,'' Elsie called, tucking her bundle underneath her arm. A very well-fed brindled cat, possibly frightened by all the noise, came out of nowhere and shot out the door, grazing Elsie's skirts. The woman in the pin striped apron heard Elsie and whirled around to look at her. The boy saw his opportunity to escape.

''Who are you?'' she demanded in that strange accent.

''I am Elsie Hughes, the new house maid.''

''House maid? Then what are you doing in the kitchen?''

''Sorry, I knocked at the servants' door for a long time, but no one came – ''

The woman, whom Elsie took to be the cook, rolled her eyes. ''Where did that boy go? He made a mess and must clean it up!''

Elsie stepped forward. ''I can clean it, if you like. I see that you're busy.''

The woman looked uncomfortable for a moment, then nodded assent. Elsie put her bundle on a stool and found a broom made of birch twigs to sweep the broken pottery into a neat pile. The cook brought her a tin pail to put the debris in.

''What did you say your name was?''

''Elsie Hughes.''

''Pleased to meet you, Elsie. I am Madame Morel, the cook. I take it Mrs Wallace was expecting you this morning?''

''She was.''

''Then I'll go find her for you. Stay put.''

The cook scurried out another door that separated the servants' hall from the kitchen, leaving Elsie to survey the kitchen. It was a large, rectangular room dominated by a pair of massive, highly-polished iron ranges with an assortment of copper kettles and saucepans sitting on them. The brick walls were painted pale green and lined with wooden shelves bearing baskets and all manner of copper and ceramic cookware; on one wall, opposite the ranges, were two deep enamel sinks with tarnished taps to deliver water. There was a long table in the centre of the room of polished walnut planks where a freshly plucked chicken lay on a platter amidst prunes and bunches of rosemary and other herbs Elsie could not identify.

Presently, Mrs Wallace swept into the kitchen, followed by Madame Morel. Elsie curtsied reflexively.

''So, here you are,'' Mrs Wallace began, looking Elsie up and down as she had the first time they met. ''You're quite late. Why didn't you come in through the servants' door?''

''I'm afraid that's my fault, Mrs Wallace,'' the cook said. ''I was angry with young Euan off for breaking something. The clumsy child. Elsie said she knocked on the servants' door; Euan would have heard and let her inside, had I not been boxing his ears.''

''Thank you, Madame Morel, that will be all. You had better come with me, Elsie.''

The first day and night Elsie spent in the brick town house was a thing she never forgot. During their passing, she lived through a wild desperation of which she never spoke to a soul about, believing no one would understand, not even other servants, who knew what it was like to find themselves far from home, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and bombarded by a million things to learn. Elsie soon discovered that many simple tasks that she had done all her life had to be learned anew, to keep up with the standards of the tailor's household.

After a brief tour of the house provided by Mrs Wallace, Elsie was led into a gloomy drawing room, where she was introduced to Carrie Gow, the senior maid, who made it her business to instruct Elsie on how to clean out a fireplace without making a sound. At first, Elsie didn't see why it mattered, and made the mistake of saying so to her superior, who pounced on her.

''Of course it matters, you cheeky beggar! It'll be part of your duties to remove the ashes from the hearth in Mrs MacGregor's bedchamber once you're trained. You'll do it early in the day before she wakes, and if she wakes because you've been banging your pail along the grate, Mrs Wallace will sack you for sure.''

Elsie stared at her, cheeks burning with shame. ''I'm sorry, Carrie,'' she said earnestly, ''Thank you for telling me these things. I'll do better next time.''

Carrie snorted and crossed the room to dust the window sills, leaving Elsie kneeling on a sheet on the hearth rug. ''Yes, I expect you will. Truly, I'm surprised at how much you need to be taught. Haven't you ever worked as a maid before?''

''I haven't.''

''What? Then how did you manage to find a place as good as this? You're lucky you didn't end up as a scullery maid, or worse. How old are you?''

''Nearly nineteen.''

''That's quite an advanced age to enter service. I was all of eleven when I left my parents' farm outside Edinburgh. Don't ask me how I ended up all the way over here. Did you meet Euan, the hallboy? He's eight. I think he's some relation of Mrs Wallace, though you'd never know it, from the way she tortures him.''

''Where is the cook from?''

''Oh, her,'' Carrie said with distaste. ''Madame Morel is a Frenchwoman. Those upstairs'' – she referred to Mr and Mrs MacGregor – ''went on an excursion to Normandy twenty years ago, and brought back more rolls of silk brocade than I've ever seen, and Madame Morel to boot. She couldn't speak a word of English when she arrived, but Mr MacGregor speaks French. Mr MacGregor likes old Leontine.'' She pronounced the cook's first name with a touch of venom, and glanced at Elsie, who had finished cleaning the fireplace and was folding her sheet, carefully, so as to not get a speck of soot on the Persian rug that covered the drawing room floor.

''Isn't it good if Mr MacGregor is happy with his cook?'' Elsie asked.

''Oh, no, you don't understand,'' Carrie whispered conspiratorially. ''The fact is, Mr MacGregor likes his cook a little too much. He also likes Mrs Wallace, though she won't put up with his pleas. And that's because she's close to Mrs MacGregor. They're friends. Mr MacGregor doesn't bother me, and I'm all the better off for it. But he might bother you.''

Elsie hardly knew what to say. ''Why might be bother me?''

Carrie clicked her tongue. ''Did Mrs Wallace tell you why the last two maids left?''

''She said that they died from a fever.''

''They did not! Those girls ran away after Mr MacGregor showed up in their room late one night.''

Elsie couldn't believe it. ''They never did,'' she stammered.

''Oh, they did,'' Carrie said brutally. ''I'm telling you this so you won't be surprised if such a thing ever happens to you. If it does, you had best leave as those other girls did. And, Elsie. Repeat anything I've just told you to Mrs Wallace, and I'll have your guts for garters. Mark my words.''

Elsie was forced to spend the rest of the day under the strict tutelage of the senior maid, who she came to dislike immensely. Elsie said as little as possible to her as they tidied all the rooms in the house with the exception of the bedchambers and the kitchen for the next two hours, then put their cleaning implements away to join the other servants in the servants' hall for breakfast.

Elsie was starving. At home she would have had breakfast at least an hour ago; but in the town house, the servants were obliged to wait until eight or even nine o' clock to eat, for that was when the family upstairs took tea in the drawing room. Servants were never allowed to occupy any room at the same time as their masters.

''We are meant to be invisible,'' Carrie reminded Elsie as they sat down at the table in the servants' hall and waited for Euan to serve them porridge and tea. ''If you're lighting a lamp in the drawing room and Mrs MacGregor comes in, you're to stand with your nose to the wall and remain silent until she's gone. That way, she'll take no notice of you. Though I daresay you won't see her downstairs very often – the woman suffers from headaches of the like I've never seen. The doctor is frequently summoned.''

Carrie and Elsie rose from their seats as Mrs Wallace and Mr Oliver, the elderly butler, came for breakfast. Mr Oliver motioned for them to sit, and took his place at the head of the table with the housekeeper at his right. Carrie and Elsie sat far down the right side of the table. Elsie noticed that only four places were set at the table.

''Aren't Madame Morel and Euan going to eat with us?''

Mrs Wallace fixed her with a sharp look. ''I should say not. Cooks and hallboys take their meals in the kitchen. Don't speak again unless you're spoken to, Elsie. Mr Oliver prefers silence during mealtimes.''

By the time Euan came around to ladle a hearty portion of porridge into Elsie's plate, she had lost her appetite. But she obediently ate all that she was given, and sipped at a cup of bitter tea as Carrie spread marmalade on toast. The butler stood up from his plate the moment he was done eating, and everyone had to do the same. The maids filed out of the hall, for it was time to clean the bedchambers, refill the coal buckets, and sweep the staircase.

Mrs Wallace took Carrie aside as they walked through the hall. ''How is the new maid getting on?'' she asked, as though Elsie weren't right beside her.

''She seems to be getting on quite well,'' Carrie replied silkily. ''Though I've had to teach her a thing or two. You wouldn't believe the amount of noise she made cleaning out the fireplace in the drawing room.''

Elsie looked down at her hands, which were smudged with soot, though she'd scrubbed them on her apron. Her breakfast lay in her belly like a stone. It was early in the day, but she felt tired in a way that she never felt tired after a morning of farmwork, not to mention humiliated, homesick, and disconcerted with what Carrie had told her about Mr MacGregor and the two maids that had given up their places to be free of him. She wondered if Carrie was telling the truth. Perhaps Carrie wanted to scare her away from the house; but, Elsie thought, what good would that do her? Didn't she want another maid to lessen her responsibilities?

Sweeping the staircase was tedious work that Elsie hated. She had never seen a staircase covered by a carpet before, and though the carpet was not deep, it was difficult to clean. Elsie spent the next hour going over the top and side of each stair with a fine brush, clearing dust from the burgundy fibres while Carrie rubbed softened beeswax into the long carven banister. When Carrie declared that the stairs looked well enough, she showed Elsie each of the house's six bedchambers, only two of which were ever used, except on the rare occasions when the MacGregors had guests staying the night.

''Even though these rooms aren't often used,'' Carrie explained, ''We must come up here to get rid of the dust twice every day. Next we'll do Mr MacGregor's room.''

''Where is he now?'' Elsie asked a bit fearfully.

''I suppose he's working. Do you see that room at the end of the hall with the closed door? That's Mr MacGregor's workroom. You're never to go in there. That's where he takes clients to be measured for new suits and the like.''

''Does he clean it himself, then?''

''Don't be ridiculous. That's my job alone, as I'm head maid.''

''And where is Mrs MacGregor?''

''Resting. We don't fuss over her room every day; Mrs Wallace does that that, because she and Mrs Wallace are friends, as I said. Though it's not proper for a housekeeper to dirty her hands with maid's work.''

''How did Mrs Wallace and Mrs MacGregor come to be friends?''

''I've heard it said that Mrs Wallace was Mrs MacGregor's personal maid before she was married. That means she would have been a lady's maid, had Mrs MacGregor married a man of the same rank as her father. He was a petty lord with an estate in the mainland. He disowned Mrs MacGregor when she ran off with Mr MacGregor and came to Lochgilphead. Mrs Wallace must have followed her.''

''What an interesting story,'' Elsie said, wiping dust from the bare mantelshelf above the fireplace in the last bedchamber before the one that belonged to Mr MacGregor, though the story didn't interest her in the least. It might have interested her, had Carrie not been the one to tell it.

Mr MacGregor's chamber was little like any of the other chambers Elsie had just seen to; those had all been more or less identical, with cream walls, minimal furniture, nondescript fireplaces, wine-coloured carpets, and windows hung with heavy yellow and brown drapes. This room was spacious, but seemed slightly less so because of the somber tones it was decorated in. The walls were covered in paper printed with a pattern of curling green and black arcanthus leaves; there were fine brown rugs on the floor to match the velvet window hangings, massive and ornate pieces of walnut furniture crowned with brass candelabras and china figurines, and a curtained four-poster bed.

''What are you goggling at?'' Carrie demanded. ''Get to work stipping Mr MacGregor's bed.''

''I've never seen a room so lovely.''

''You like it, do you?'' Carrie helped Elsie to fold the bed linens, which didn't look as though they had been slept in. ''Well, take care that you only ever come here with me.''

Elsie stiffened as she correctly guessed what the other maid was implying. ''What sort of woman do you think I am, Miss Gow?''

Carrie seemed nonplussed. ''You tell me.''

''I have come here to work, nothing more. You have no right to speak to me as though I'm...'' She searched for a suitable word to use. ''Well, _fast_.''

''More cheek!'' Carrie shrilled, yanking a sheet from Elsie's trembling hands. ''And on your first day. I shall speak with Mrs Wallace about you! You'll have to search for employment elsewhere!''

Elsie's heart skipped a beat. She wanted to cry out ''Please, don't!'' but bit her tongue – quite literally – and calmly took the stack of bedlinens from the senior maid. ''Where do we put these?''

''In the laundry room, of course. Where else? I'll show you where it is. The laundress lives in town, she comes here thrice a week to do the washing. Now, we must take hot water upstairs for Mr MacGregor to wash with before lunch, then tidy the servants' hall while they eat.''

Elsie didn't ask what time the servants' lunch would be held. Her stomach ached from the porridge she had eaten hours ago; or was it from nerves? Would Carrie really tell Mrs Wallace about the altercation they'd had?

The rest of Elsie's day went relatively smoothly; lunch was a plate of piping hot cock-a-leekie with butter rolls, which tasted considerably better than the porridge, and did a bit to raise Elsie's spirits. After lunch, Carrie and Elsie returned to Mr MacGregor's bedchamber to empty the water. They spent a lot of time dusting and tidying every room in the house again, except for the one Mrs MacGregor rested in, whether it needed it or not; then they lit fires and lamps in some of the rooms and cleaned the glass and china in the drawing and dining rooms. Dinner, consisting of what was left of the cock-a-leekie, was served late, and when the clock struck eleven, Mrs Wallace appeared to tell Elsie that her work was finished for the day.

''Let me show you to your room,'' she said. Elsie was led to the servants' hall, then shown a door she hadn't noticed before, which opened to a dark, tight, winding staircase that only the servants climbed. Mrs Wallace lit a pair of candles and handed one to Elsie. ''These stairs lead to the garret. Mr Oliver and I do not sleep there; our rooms are along the servants' hall, if you ever need to know. But Carrie and you occupy the first two rooms on the right side of the hall.''

Elsie's room was tiny and white, with a narrow brass bed and a few sticks of furniture, namely a washstand bearing a flaking enamel pitcher and basin, and a plain wooden chest in which she would keep her things. There was a cracked mirror hanging on the wall, and a small window curtained by an unhemmed piece of calico. Elsie recognised the calico as being of the same material as Carrie's dress, white with tiny brown and red flowers. She turned her attention elsewhere, and noticed her bundle of clothing, which Mrs Wallace had taken from her soon after her arrival that morning, waiting on the brass bed.

''You should be comfortable here,'' Mrs Wallace intoned, ''Though I daresay the place will get cold in winter. Ask me if you require a second blanket. Also, you will be issued candles and a box of matches, should you need to see in the night. Some are already in the drawer of your washstand.''

''Thank you, Mrs Wallace,'' Elsie said gratefully.

''Carrie gave a good report of your work today. She says you are very willing.''

Elsie nodded. ''Thank you, Mrs Wallace.''

''I bid you good night.''

''Yes. Good night.''

Elsie waited until Mrs Wallace had gone down the hallway, the keys on the chain around her waist clinking together, then examined the door of her room. It had a keyhole, but she hadn't been given a key for it. Had Mrs Wallace perhaps forgotten to give her a key, or was her room to remain unlocked, even at night? Elsie opened the drawer of her washstand to see if it contained a key, but found nothing but the candles and box of matches that Mrs Wallace had promised.

She set her candle on the washstand and gave the chest at the foot of her bed a little push to see how heavy it was. It was quite heavy, solidly made, and Elsie thought about putting it in front of her door, so that if anyone tried to come inside during the night, they would have difficulty opening the door. She bent down, preparing to push and pull the heavy chest by turns, but stopped when she heard how loudly it grated on the floorboards. If she moved the chest from its usual place every morning and evening, Mrs Wallace would surely hear her from her room below and come up to ask what she was doing; then Elsie would be forced to reiterate what Carrie had told her about Mr Wallace and the maids.

The last thing Elsie wanted was more trouble from Carrie. With a sigh, she straightened the chest, opened the lid, and began to unpack her things.

...Elsie was more tired than she could ever remember being. But sleep evaded her for the longest time. Her mind raced. She felt lonely and miserable. It rained throughout the night, and the room grew chill and damp. She could hear water dripping off the slate roof outside her window, and heard heavy drops falling on the edge of her washstand as well. Elsie thought of her family, dreaming under the sound thatch roof of the old stone farmhouse, and burst into tears.


	7. A Pile of Brocade

_The clock on the mantelshelf struck twelve as I felt in the envelope for another photograph to show Sybille. The few remaining were of my sister's dear children, whom I only ever saw twice in person. I did not know if Sybille would care to see photographs of children with large, hungry eyes dating from around 1904; and in truth, I can hardly bear to set eyes on the grim countenances of my two nieces and nephew..._

_All these years, I've told myself that there was nothing I could have done to save the girls from their fate. I don't worry about the boy, for he died before he could walk, and was spared the hardship his sisters endured for all of their short lives._

_Nevertheless, I shook the remaining photographs from the envelope, drawn by what haunts me._

_Sybille rose before the clock ceased to chime. ''I'm ever so sorry, Elsie, but I must go. It's later than I thought; Mother will expect me home for lunch.'' The girl gathered the pictures on her lap and made a neat stack of them for me to slide back into the envelope. But I held onto them._

_''That's alright, dear. I'll walk with you to the gate. Oh, wait a minute – '' I thought of something I wanted to give Sybille as a birthday present. It was in an old silk purse in a drawer of the dressing-table in my bedroom._

Chapter Seven: A Pile of Brocade

Despite her trouble with the other maid, which only worsened as time went on, it didn't take long for Elsie to find her niche in the strict hierarchy of the servants in the brick town house, which was less strict than the hierarchies of servants in many households, due in part to the small number of staff the butler and housekeeper employed.

But Elsie knew nothing of how larger households were run, and wouldn't know for years to come. She understood that Mr Oliver and Mrs Wallace were there to keep the house in order, and did not dirty their hands with the sort of work she and Carrie had been hired to do. The butler doubled as a valet for Mr MacGregor, served the tailor and his wife their meals, announced visitors, and kept track of the bottles of wine in the pantry. The housekeeper performed the duties of a lady's maid, kept an account of all the current expenses of the house, took care of the linen and china, planned meals with the cook, and solemnly doled out the wages of the inferior servants at the end of each month.

Elsie received no payment for her work in September, as she had been hired as an untrained maid in the second week of that month, and had to spend the next two weeks in training. Elsie was displeased when she learned of this arrangement, but there was nothing she could do about it. She patiently carried out every task required of her, and looked forward to the next month when she would assuredly be paid.

And indeed, by the time All Hallows' Eve came around, Elsie was handed all of two pounds, an amount which pleasantly surprised her. Mrs Wallace had hired Elsie intending to pay her no more than one pound a month for her lack of experience; but the new maid proved to be well-mannered, dependable and hard-working. It was easy to see that she meant to keep her place. Mrs Wallace asked her mistress if Elsie's pay might be increased by an additional pound a month, which would still have her earning less than any of the other staff, with the exception of the hallboy. Thirty-odd years in service had led the housekeeper to believe that higher pay galvanised servants to be ever thorough in their work, if they were suited for servitude; those who were not suited weren't likely to be so thorough no matter what they were paid, and could be dismissed before collecting good wages they had done little to deserve.

The first thing Elsie did the evening she had her first wages was to scurry up to the garret and pen a long letter home using stationery she had brought from the farm.

Although Elsie had been away from home for several weeks now, this was the first time she had written her family. It cost a penny to post a letter, and Elsie had only five pennies knotted in a handkerchief in the chest that held her belongings. She had to make them last, so letters home would be few and far between. Elsie neatly folded the letter, along with the two pounds, into a square brown envelope and hoped that someone on the farm would find the time to write back admist their busy preparations for winter. There was always a great deal to do on the farm this time of year; pickles and cheeses must be made, mutton salted and the stomachs of the sheep stuffed with offal and spices and steamed, bread and cakes baked, outbuildings and fences repaired, and countless other things besides...For the first time in her life, Elsie would not be with her family to help them with these tasks, which amounted to a lot of hard work that had to be completed before the snow flew; but her family found ways to make even the hardest jobs enjoyable. Elisabeth liked to lead her sister and nieces in song as they scrubbed floors, beat rugs, washed fleeces, and raked leaves and twigs in the yard into a pile to burn. They sang children's songs, Christmas carols, and ballads old as the hills.

A tear escaped Elsie's eye as a wave of loneliness washed over her. It was the first time she had felt lonely since arriving at the town house, where loneliness was synonymous with idleness; if you kept busy as you were supposed to do, you wouldn't have time to feel lonely.

Elsie got to her feet and slid the letter into a drawer in the washstand for safekeeping until she could give it to Mr Oliver to seal and post for her next time he was in town. She was glad that she needn't wait until she had a day off to post it herself. Now that Elsie was a trained maid, she would be allowed the first Wednesday of every third month to do with as she pleased. How her heart leapt at the prospect! In exactly three months' time, she could visit home.

Now, however, she was exhausted from seventeen hours of work and would likely fall asleep the moment her head hit her pillow. She removed the muslin apron and cap she'd been issued, hung them on a hook on her door, then peeled off her grey-striped work dress, which had a spot of ink on the cuff of one sleeve. Elsie would have to give it to the laundress when she came on the morrow and make do with her less becoming dress of checked shoddy until the stain was removed.

Elsie was in her long nightdress, unpinning her hair, when her ears pricked at the sound of floorboards creaking ever so softly outside her door. She spun around, puzzled. Who could be up and about in the garret this late at night? She and Carrie had been relieved of their duties for the day an hour ago, and Carrie had withdrawn to her room without a word. Elsie had thought she heard the older woman snoring after that. She might have woken up later, but the maids weren't supposed to leave their rooms after a certain time at night. Was it Mrs Wallace, then, coming to check on something?

Elsie's heart went cold as she thought of another person it could be, though God help her if it was. Mr MacGregor. How many nights had her sleep been interrupted by sounds such as these, which never failed to send her fumbling for a match to light her candle with, lest the old man enter her room in the dark? But the floorboards had always ceased to creak within seconds as whomever it was moved over them with an intent that had nothing to do with her.

The creaking nearly always startled Elsie closer to dawn, and she had never gone to investigate its source. Now, the candle beside her bed was already lit, and while her curiosity seemed greater than her fear, Elsie threw a shawl on over her nightdress and stepped lightly towards the door before the floorboards stopped creaking, wanting open the door only a crack so she could finally see who was in the corridor.

It was Carrie. For a moment, Elsie wondered if she might be walking in her sleep. But her eyes were wide open and alert as she stood adjusting her wrapper at the end of the corridor. She held a candle that flickered in the draft. Her feet were bare. Elsie opened the door a fraction wider, without meaning to, causing a thin beam of candlelight to fall diagonally across the corridor. She tried to close the door, but it was too late; Carrie turned around, took one look at Elsie, and began to advance menacingly towards her.

''What do you think you're doing, spying on me?'' Carrie demanded.

''I wasn't spying on you,'' Elsie explained quickly. ''I heard someone outside, and I was afraid – ''

''Afraid of what?''

''You tell me,'' Elsie countered, using one of the other maid's favourite phrases.

Carrie glanced around them, and forcefully pushed Elsie inside her room. Elsie opened her mouth to speak, but Carrie struck her across the face, not quite hard enough to leave a mark; but tears of pain sprang immediately to Elsie's eyes.

''Carrie, what is the matter with you?''

Carrie was breathing hard. ''If you tell a soul that you saw me up tonight, I'll make sure you're sacked. Better believe it.''

''But why?''

''Mind your own business, you horse-faced tramp.''

Elsie pressed her hand to her face. ''Carrie, why would you speak that way to me? Why hit me? I'm not going to tell on you.''

Carrie looked at the floor; a corner of her mouth twitched, and a strand of sand-coloured hair brushed her wide forehead. ''Go to sleep now,'' she said at last. ''And remember what I said.''

Elsie watched her leave. Deeply upset, she sank down onto the edge of her bed. Her cheek stung. After several moments, she lay down and thought long and hard about telling Mrs Wallace of what Carrie had done to her. Mrs Wallace seemed kind; perhaps she would believe Elsie's story. But then what? And what if she didn't believe her?

Elsie slept, and her dreams were full of Carrie's face, distorted with ill-controlled fury. She felt little rested in the morning, but heard no more footsteps outside her door at night for quite some time.

Elsie was awakened by a series of brusque knocks on her door and a voice on the other side that called, ''Six o' clock, rise and shine!''

''Thank you, Carrie,'' she replied, sitting up and throwing off the woolen blankets that had kept her warm throughout the night. Uncovered, Elsie became aware of how terribly cold the room was; she could actually see her breath in the air. Shivering in her sleeveless linen camisole and drawers, Elsie drug a horn comb through her long hair and twisted it into a large chignon, arranging her fringe so that it framed her face attractively. She splashed her face with icy water from the basin on the washstand and, finding no towel, dried off on a petticoat from the wooden chest at the foot of her bed. She pulled a fresh shift over her head and then put on her corset, tightening the laces until her waist measured a scant twenty-two inches. She slipped on a corset cover and stepped into the first of five petticoats made of heavy flannel for the winter. She donned a dress of navy wool, put on stockings and shoes, and at last her cap and apron.

When she had made her bed, Elsie was ready to go downstairs. It was a week before Yule. Boughs of holly and yew had been brought in to brighten the mantels, windows, and doorways of the house, candelabras and lamps polished, floors waxed, and a large spruce tree erected in the drawing room and decorated with all manner of clever glass, paper and tin trinkets. The servants' hall was fragrant with the smell of baking, and Elsie heard the butler remark that Madame Morel had outdone herself this year. Elsie had seen the table in the kitchen piled high with black buns, mince pies, plates of candied fruit, and puddings. Mr Oliver and Mrs Wallace seemed to be in good spirits; they had as much work to do as the rest of the staff between the days of Yuletide and Hogmanay, but they often lingered in the kitchen, sipping at steaming cups of wassail and reminiscing of Yules past.

Elsie knelt to clean the fireplace in her mistress's bedchamber, and thought of holidays on the Burns farm. None of the rooms in the farmhouse were quite large enough for a tree, even a small one, but Elsie, Charlotte and Lyddie made wreaths and garlands to decorate the doors, and sent Joe into the old oak groves to look for a great tangle of mistletoe to shoot down. He managed to get some most years, and Elsie's mother suspended it from a rafter above the table where the family enjoyed a feast of cock-a-leekie, haggis and sausages with turnips and potatoes, black buns and trifle. After everyone had eaten their fill, they exchanged small presents which were usually handmade and useful.

As Elsie stood with her sheet, brush, pan, and pail of cold ashes, with a new fire crackling behind the grating, her eyes settled on Mrs MacGregor's sleeping form. Wisps of dark hair peeked from beneath the silk and velvet quilt. Elsie seldom saw the MacGregors, and realised that she hardly knew anything about them. The tailor spent his days in his workroom, while his wife kept to her bed. She was often ill. Elsie could see an array of glass bottles on her bedside table. The nearest had a lable which read ''Tincture of Opium''. Elsie had heard of opium, but she wasn't sure what it was.

Mrs MacGregor stirred ever so slightly, and Elsie ran out of the room, nearly colliding with Carrie, who had just finished with the fireplace in Mr MacGregor's chamber.

''Don't run into me,'' Carrie snarled. ''It looks like we're going to have help cleaning the other rooms today.''

''What do you mean?''

''Didn't Mrs Wallace tell you that she's hired a new maid?''

''No. Do you know anything about her?''

Carrie hefted her cleaning equipment and started towards the drawing room. ''I heard Mrs Wallace tell Mr Oliver that she's a farm girl, like you. Perhaps she'll be your replacement.''

Elsie followed her. ''Perhaps she'll be yours.''

''Not very likely. I've worked in this house for years, they won't replace me until I hand in my notice.''

Elsie narrowed her eyes. She and Carrie undertook their first chores of the day, and then it was time for breakfast. They encountered Mrs Wallace in the servants' hall. She was absentmindedly fiddling with the set of keys at her waist. ''Carrie, Elsie,'' she said. ''Come with me, there's someone you must meet. I've hired her for the holidays, but she will stay with us afterwards if her work proves satisfactory.''

Elsie felt hope blossom in her breast and tried to suppress it so she would not be downcast if her hopes turned out to be vain. She followed Mrs Wallace into her chamber, where a tall young woman stood, still wrapped in a cloak against the bitter cold outdoors. Elsie's heart began to beat wildly. Snowflakes had melted on the woman's tawny hair and sparkled like diamonds. She met Elsie's eyes, and coloured, but did not give herself away.

''This is Lyddie Burns,'' the housekeeper said.

''How do you do,'' Carrie said, sounding as friendly as she had when Elsie first became acquainted with her. Elsie resolved to warn her sister of Carrie's true nature the moment they could speak in private – whenever that might be.

Elsie expected to spend the day teaching Lyddie new ways to do her chores, as Carrie had done with her when she was new in the house; but after breakfast, Madame Morel appeared and whisked Lyddie away into the kitchen where she was made to clean the range that wasn't being used, wash two heaping sinkfuls of pots and pans, polish innumerable pieces of cutlery, peel turnips, dump ashes and slops, scrub the steps outside the kitchen, and then scrub the kitchen floor stone by stone with the Frenchwoman shouting at the hallboy over her head, all before lunch, which was the next time the sisters saw one another.

Lunch passed too quickly, and as always, in silence requested by the butler. Elsie sat beside Lyddie, glancing at her every now and again, and discreetly pushed her bread roll towards the younger woman when she had finished her own. Lydia pushed the roll back, but gave Elsie a weak smile. Elsie felt for Lyddie's hand underneath the table and squeezed it reassuringly.

Throughout the rest of the day, Elsie was unable to concentrate fully on her tasks. She burned to speak with her sister. There was so much she wanted to ask her. Elsie's mind raced with fragments of imagined conversations and news of their family. She wondered how Lyddie was getting on in the kitchen with Euan and Madame Morel.

When the servants assembled downstairs for dinner, Elsie waited for Lyddie to take her place at the table. But she never came.

''Elsie,'' Mrs Wallace said suddenly, causing Elsie to jump. ''Whatever is the matter? Have you forgotten to do something?''

''No, Mrs Wallace.''

''Then why do you keep looking around so nervously?''

''What do you mean, Mrs Wallace?''

Mrs Wallaced frowned. Elsie felt her face go red when Mr Oliver regarded her with as much displeasure.

''You look a little peaky this evening,'' Mrs Wallace said. ''Eat your dinner and have an early night. _After_ you and Carrie have gone over the servants' hall, that is.''

''Perhaps we'd all better have an early night,'' Mr Oliver advocated. ''For tomorrow the master's family will arrive from Inveraray with one or two of their staff, and we must make the house ready for them.''

''They're coming tomorrow?'' Carrie croaked.

''That's right, Carrie.'' Mrs Wallace helped herself to mutton boiled with turnips and greens from a tureen proffered by Euan. ''Have you got a problem?''

''No, Mrs Wallace. Only every other year, the master's family arrives on Yule Eve, and not days before. How will we have time to make the house ready for as many as it can hold?''

''We will simply have to do it, Carrie. That's all I can say. Mr Oliver and I weren't notified of the family's imminent arrival until little more than an hour ago. Though the master might have known for days – oh!'' Mrs Wallace touched her right temple. ''Euan, could you make me a cup of willow tea? That's a good lad.'' She turned to the butler. ''I'm beginning to suffer from headaches just like Mrs MacGregor.''

''You do too much,'' Mr Oliver said seriously.

Elsie felt sorry for the housekeeper. ''We'll make the master's family very comfortable here.'' She dared to speak only because Carrie had spoken out of turn and no one had berated her for it. ''It's quite short notice, but many hands make light work. If we all pull our weight, the house will sparkle for the holidays.''

Mr Oliver nodded. ''Thank you, Elsie. See, Carrie, how Elsie tries to make the best of things. She doesn't moan when the going gets tough as you do. That is the mark of a good servant.''

Elsie bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling under the butler's praise. Then she noticed that Carrie was scowling formidably at her. Elsie sobered and turned her attention to her dinner.

Later, Elsie plied the corners of the ceiling of the servants' hall with the cloth-covered end of a broomstick to clear them of dust. She was alone in the hall; Carrie had headed to the lavatory, and the butler and housekeeper were conferring with the cook in the pantry. Elsie moved as close to the kitchen as she dared, hoping to glimpse her sister.

There was Lyddie, clad in a canvas apron and sleeve protectors, scrubbing the table. A cup of tea was beside her; she stopped scrubbing to take a sip and saw Elsie. She set down her tea and stepped into the doorway that separated the kitchen from the hall.

''Why weren't you at dinner?'' Elsie whispered.

''They've decided that I'm to help in the kitchen. So, I'll only be allowed to eat there from now on. Why did they choose you to be a house maid and not me?''

''I don't know. If you don't like it, you can quit.''

''You know I won't do that. How have you been? We've missed you terribly at home. Charlotte cried after you left, can you imagine?''

''I bet she cried harder after you left.''

Lyddie shrugged. ''I couldn't have stayed at home forever.''

''Did you get my letter?'' Elsie asked, then drew back swiftly. Carrie had come back into the hall.

''Have you finished in here?'' the other maid demanded.

''I have.''

''Good. Then we can go to bed.'' Carrie took the broomstick out of Elsie's hand and put it in a nearby cabinet. Then she started up the staircase to the garret.

''Don't go up there yet. We have to wait for Mrs Wallace to say we can go to bed,'' Elsie said.

''Were you talking to that new girl?''

''She only asked me if I'd like a cup of tea.''

''She shouldn't be speaking to you at all; you're a house maid.''

''Oh, Carrie, does being a house maid make me so much grander than she? At the end of the day, we're both just farm girls trying to make our way in the world. And so are you; just a farm girl.''

Carrie straightened. ''I'll have to teach you.''

''Teach her what?'' Mrs Wallace had been in the kitchen and overheard their entire conversation.

Carrie and Elsie curtsied to the housekeeper.

''You two have done a good job in here. I can't make out a speck of dust. But Elsie is right, Carrie. You must wait for me to say you can go to bed. Lyddie, come here.''

Lyddie had taken off her apron and sleeve protectors and stood submissively at the housekeeper's side. Her hands and face were begrimed with soot, and her hair was coming out of its bun.

''Elsie, show Lyddie the garret. Her room is the one after Carrie's. You both may go to bed. Carrie, you will stay downstairs with me for a moment, I must have a talk with you.''

Elsie and Lyddie curtsied and began to climb the narrow staircase. Lyddie grabbed hold of Elsie's hand, and they both began to smile.

''We did get your letter,'' Lyddie said when they reached her room. The roll of things she had brought with her lay on her bed. Lyddie set to unwrapping it. ''I've got one in here for you. We've been so busy at home that no one got the chance to send it.'' She thrust a thick envelope into Elsie's hands.

''Oh, thank you,'' Elsie breathed, holding the letter to her breast.

''Open it! I've got something else for you, too.''

Elsie carefully broke the seal on the envelope and withdrew several sheets of paper covered in her mother's unpracticed scrawl. She began reading and did not see the coat Lyddie held.

''Elisabeth said that it belonged to our father.''

That caught Elsie's attention; she looked up from the letter and beheld a long coat of dark green wool with a burgundy broadcloth lining. Elsie touched the fine material. ''I've never seen this before. Did it really belong to our father? But it looks as though it's never been worn. And it's not cut like a man's coat...''

''Elisabeth told me that he only wore it once, on the night he died. Someone brought it to her from the kilns. Mam had kept it in a chest all these years, but she brought it out a few weeks ago to show us. We decided to take the coat apart and alter it to fit you. Or rather, we altered it to fit me, since you and I are about the same size, and you needed something better to wear this winter than your old cloak.''

Elsie gently took the coat. She would have liked to put it on, but her dress was soiled from a day's work. ''Thank you so much, Lyddie. It's beautiful. I'll have to write Mam to thank her.''

Lyddie dug in her belongings again and brought forth the two pounds Elsie had included in her letter months ago. ''Mam says that these belong to you. She says they're well off enough on the farm without our wages. We're to keep what we earn.'' She put the coins into Elsie's palm.

''But I'm proud to send my wages home,'' she said feebly.

''And Mam is proud to let you keep them. Just keep them! Think, if you keep getting paid like that, you'll have twelve pounds in one year!''

''Mrs Wallace doesn't pay until you're trained for what you've been hired for. I got nothing for September.''

''Well,'' Lyddie sighed.

The door suddenly opened, and Carrie entered with a pail of warm water for Lyddie to wash with. She set it on the floor, causing a little water to slosh out. ''You two have got a lot to talk about, don't you? What are those things you've got?''

Elsie gathered the pages of the letter, draped the new coat over her arm, and went straight to her room. She closed the door behind her, fuming. How she despired Carrie. She hadn't brought a candle with her, and the room was very dark. Dark and cold. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and she undressed and lay down to sleep.

An hour past midnight, Elsie woke to find Lyddie by her bed. She thought she was dreaming. But Lyddie touched her arm and put a finger to her lips. Elsie moved over to make room for her sister on the narrow bed, and they lay together, dozing, for a long while, until they were wakened by the sound of floorboards creaking.

''What is that?'' Lyddie mouthed.

''It's Carrie,'' Elsie whispered into her ear when the creaking stopped. ''She leaves the garret some nights. I don't know why.''

''Could she be going to see someone?''

''Who?''

''I don't know.''

Lyddie slipped back into her own room before morning. Elsie woke to a room filled with a soft, pale light, like moonlight but more substantial. Peering out the window, she saw that it had snowed more than two hands' breadths during the night. Icicles hung from the roof, and a fierce wind was blowing, causing the skeletal trees across the street to bend and sway. The sun was coming up, tinting the clouds at the horizon pink.

''Elsie?'' a voice called impatiently. It was Mrs Wallace. Elsie just had time to throw on her wrapper before the housekeeper opened the door. ''Aren't ready to go downstairs, girl? Get a move on, for heaven's sake! The master's family will be here today.''

''Yes, Mrs Wallace! Right away!''

The housekeeper slammed the door, leaving Elsie to get washed and dressed. Elsie put on her grey-striped frock and cleaned her teeth with salt. In the servants' hall, Carrie was preening, decked out in her modest best, for as head house maid, she would be expected to accompany the butler and housekeeper in front of the house to receive the guests when their rented carriage was sighted.

Elsie remembered that the guests would be bringing some of their staff to wait on them during the holidays. She wondered what servants from a household in Inveraray might be like. She found out just after lunch was served; Mr MacGregor rang for the butler, who went to the drawing room to see what he wanted, and then rushed back into the servants' hall declaring that the guests were here. Mrs Wallace and Carrie immediately put down their spoons and followed Mr Oliver out the servants' door, leaving Elsie standing at the table admist untouched plates of broth.

Euan came with a tray to collect the plates. ''Is the new kitchen maid your sister?'' he asked Elsie, peering up at her with large, dark eyes.

''Why do you ask?''

''She reminds me of you. Aren't you going out to meet those people?''

''I can't; I'm not a senior servant.'' Elsie helped Euan transport the plates into the kitchen, as she had nothing else to do while the guests were taken into the house. Lyddie was bent over the sink, scouring a copper cauldron. The sister exchanged nods.

''Did you know that Mrs Wallace is my aunt?''

Elsie smiled at the little boy. ''I didn't know.''

''She was my mother's twin sister. They looked just alike. Mother died last year, and now Auntie – I mean Mrs Wallace – looks after me. She got me this job. She says that if I work hard, I might become a footman one day. Or even a butler. I think I would like to become a butler.''

''That's a fine ambition, Euan,'' Elsie said, ruffling the boy's hair. ''I wish you the best of luck.''

Euan laughed. ''My mother used to do that.''

Madame Morel bustled in from the pantry with a basket piled with wheels and wedges of cheese, followed by the fat brindled cat. ''Elsie, whatever are you doing in here? Back into the hall with you!''

Elsie did as she was told. Presently, Mr Oliver, Mrs Wallace, and Carrie came through the servants' door, shivering and shaking snow from their clothes. They were trailed by a man and woman Elsie took to be the servants from Inveraray.

''There's so much snow out there, it's a wonder they didn't have to rent a sledge rather than a carriage to get here from the train station!'' Mrs Wallace exclaimed, dabbing underneath her nose with a hankie.

''Shall I ask the cook to make you all some tea?''

''Yes, Elsie, we would be grateful,'' Mr Oliver said.

Both tea and coffee had to be served to the family upstairs first, one right after the other; but Madame Morel made a large pot of strong tea for the servants to drink while she re-heated the broth they hadn't had time to eat before the guests drove up. As the servants sat down at the table for a belated lunch, Elsie found herself drawn to the pair who had been introduced as Brian Moireach and Doirin GhillAndrais, a valet and waiting woman who often travelled with the family they served. They had been acquainted with Mr Oliver and Mrs Wallace for well over a decade, and were greeted with handshakes and warm smiles. The senior servants began a lively conversation over their meals which quickly lapsed into Gaelic, a tongue spoken mainly in the islands that Elsie understood little of. At length, Lyddie and Euan came into the hall bearing trays laden with mugs of fragrant apple wassail.

The tailor's family stayed until after Hogmanay. With the holidays over, the house returned to normal. Torrents of rain caused the snow to melt, leaving the town house sitting in a slick of mud under a sky the colour of milk. Elsie's days passed in monotony, and she looked forward to the 31st of January, when she had a day off and could visit home. She had already written her mother to ask if Joe might meet her in town with the cart that day so she wouldn't have to be driven to the farm in a cab. Unfortunately, Lyddie would not be allowed to visit home with her; it would be ages before she had a day off of her own. This brought Elsie low. She wondered if all of her family would ever be under the same roof again, with she and Lyddie in service and Charlotte about to be married to a young man from a neighbouring farm who had begun to court her the previous autumn, as she had learned from her mother's last letter.

But that was life.

One afternoon when the sun shone weakly through the clouds, Elsie had to clean all the rooms on the top floor of the house on her own, as Carrie had been sent to bed with a toothache. Elsie had just finished the last of the guest rooms when she heard a soft cry from a room at the end of the corridor. She put her cleaning implements down and listened hard, wondering if she had imagined the cry. It had sounded like a cry of pain. Elsie thought Mrs MacGregor might be suffering from one of her headaches; but then she remembered that Mrs MacGregor was entertaining in the drawing room. The cry came a second time, and then a third; Elsie found herself inching towards the end of the corridor, though she had a bad feeling about this, and knew she should leave.

The cries came from the tailor's workroom, the door of which stood ajar. Putting a hand on the wall to steady herself, Elsie looked into the room, then drew away in shock. Her mouth went dry. She collected her broom and dustpan and made her way to the servants' hall through the narrow hidden corridor which servants used to get around the house.

The hall seemed deserted. Elsie wanted Mrs Wallace, but the door of her chamber was closed, and she didn't dare knock. As a rule, inferior servants were not supposed to speak to the housekeeper or butler unless they were spoken to first. She found Lyddie in the kitchen, plucking a goose. Lyddie looked up from her work in alarm.

''What's the matter, Elsie?''

''Where is Madame Morel?''

''In the pantry. I'll get her for you.''

''Madame Morel,'' Elsie said when the cook appeared, ''I need to speak to Mrs Wallace. Right away.''

''Whatever for? She's sorting the linen in her chamber.''

''Please, it's important.''

Elsie followed Madame Morel to the housekeeper's chamber, twisting her hands together in nervousness.

''Mrs Wallace, Elsie would like a word with you.''

The housekeeper was surrounded by stacks of newly washed linen. ''What is it, Elsie? I'm busy.''

Elsie waited until Madame Morel had left before she said, hesitantly, ''Mrs Wallace, Carrie is in the master's workroom. With the master.''

''What?'' Mrs Wallace didn't seem to understand. Then her mouth fell open. She sidled past her desk, knocking a folded sheet to the floor. ''You say she's there now? Come with me.''

Elsie didn't want to come, but the housekeeper took hold of her hand and pulled her along up the servants' stairs and onto the second floor. She marched towards the workroom, the keys at her waist clinking. Elsie wrenched her hand free and cowered behind Mrs Wallace, wondering why she was being forced to witness Carrie's disgrace again.

Mrs Wallace opened the door of the workroom with a jerk to expose the lovers, who were lying on a pile of brocade. Mr MacGregor was naked to the waist, having just drawn his trousers up; he spun around to face his wife's oldest friend with a penetrating glare Elsie would never forget. Carrie writhed on the brocade, screaming, and tried to cover herself.

''Be quiet!'' the housekeeper said through clenched teeth, unable to look at Carrie. ''Mr MacGregor, how could you?''

Elsie backed away.

''What are you going to do about it?'' Mr MacGregor said casually. ''You'll sack the maid, of course – ''

''That goes without saying.''

'' – but if you tell Mrs MacGregor, she'll have a fit.''

''I know,'' Mrs Wallace said helplessly. ''But I will tell her, sooner or later. I've served your wife since we were girls. My loyalty is to her, not you. She gave up everything to be with you. But you seem to have forgotten that.''

Inside the room, Carrie was sobbing pitifully. Mrs Wallace didn't say a word to her. She shut the door softly and turned to Elsie, who felt sick.

''Speak of this to no one,'' the housekeeper implored as they moved through the shadowy corridor.

''Why did you make me go up there again?''

''I don't know, Elsie. I honestly don't know. I wasn't thinking. I suppose I didn't believe you – or didn't want to believe you – '' Mrs Wallace drew a shaky breath, and Elsie was afraid she would weep. ''Forgive me.''

''Will you be alright, Mrs Wallace?''

''I will be once Carrie has been replaced,'' Mrs Wallace said as they emerged in the servants' hall. ''Will _you_ be alright? You'll have to do all the work in this house until I've hired a new maid. My goodness, with Carrie gone, I suppose you're head maid, unless someone comes along who is better suited for the position.''

''What if I trained Lyddie to help me?'' Elsie asked.

But Mrs Wallace was accosted by Mr Oliver, who was holding his wine ledger open for her to see, and didn't hear her to answer.

If there was anything Elsie hated, it was an atmosphere.

Carrie was gone before nightfall. No one saw her leave. At dinner, Mr Oliver picked at his food for a time, glowering, then rose from his seat, throwing his napkin over his half-eaten food as if in disgust. Mrs Wallace and Elsie rose with him, as they had to do. Paying them no attention, the butler stalked off, his mouth set in a hard line.

''Mr Oliver,'' the housekeeper began mollifyingly, and flinched when the old man ordered her to sit and eat her dinner. Her disappeared into his chamber, fairly slamming the door behind him.

Mrs Wallace gave Elsie an apologetic look. ''Well, I had to tell him about Carrie,'' she explained weakly, taking a tiny bite of oatcake. ''Debacles of this nature always upset him. As they should. Elsie – '' she kept her voice low so that neither the butler nor anyone in the kitchen would hear her – ''do you know how their affair might have began?''

''What do you mean, Mrs Wallace?''

''Oh, never mind. You shouldn't be involved you in this any more than you already are.''

Elsie swallowed hard. ''Mrs Wallace, may I ask a question?''

The housekeeper raised her dark brows sharply.

''The day you hired me, you mentioned two maids who died from fevers in this house. Is it true that they never died – what I mean to say is, did the two of them run away because the master had come into their rooms at night?''

Mrs Wallace looked astonished. ''No, Elsie! Those maids did die. That's a fact. I never heard anything about the master coming into their rooms at night, though now, it wouldn't surprise me. Where did you get such an idea?''

''From Carrie. She told stories about the master which frightened me.'' Elsie met Mrs Wallace's eyes, which were full of questions, but left it at that. The women finished their dinners in silence.

''It seems to me,'' Lyddie said later that night as she poured water over her sister's hair to wash out the last of the sharp-smelling soap, ''that Carrie only told you those stories to make you stay away from the master's workroom. She probably left the garret at night to meet him there.''

''I don't know,'' Elsie replied, shifting uncomfortably in the small zinc tub. ''It might not have been as simple as that. But I don't want to think about it any more. I shouldn't have told you anything about it; Mrs Wallace begged me not to tell anyone.''

Lyddie squeezed the water from Elsie's hair and handed her a flannel to dry off with as she stepped out of the tub. Elsie scrubbed her face and limbs with the sheet until her skin was bright red; it was very cold in the garret, and a vigorous scrub was said to improve blood circulation and warm the body. When she had put on her nightdress, bed socks and wrapper, the sisters lifted the tub and poured the water into pails to dispose of in the morning.

''Do you think Carrie will be replaced soon?'' Lyddie asked, smoothing her hair. She'd had a bath earlier, and her hair was still damp.

''I should think so. Do you like working in the kitchen?'' Elsie accepted a wrinkled winter apple that Lyddie had smuggled upstairs.

''It's alright,'' Lyddie said, biting into an apple of her own.

''Do you often feel homesick?''

''Of course. I cried myself to sleep nearly every night over Yule.''

''I might have shed a few tears myself,'' Elsie said stiffly.

''But you'll get to visit home soon.''

''True. If Mrs Wallace will still let me have a day off with no one else to see to the house. She can't see to it herself, she has so much to do, and housekeepers don't dust and sweep, anyway.'' Suddenly, she was gripped by a terrible thought. ''My God, what if Mrs Wallace doesn't let me have the 31st off? I've already written Mam to ask if Joe can meet me from town. What if Joe comes, and I'm nowhere to be found? He'll think something has happened to me!''

''You'll just have to write Mam again and tell her you probably won't be visiting after all. Write it tonight, and give it to Mr Oliver tomorrow; then, if you can have the day off after all, take a cab home and give them a big surprise.''

''I'll talk to Mrs Wallace about it,'' Elsie sighed. ''And if I'm lucky, she'll have Mr Oliver post the letter for me immediately. Unless he can't get away from the house for some reason. How I hate having to rely on other people for everything!''

Lyddie yawned. ''Well, perhaps you'll find yourself in a position some day where everyone relies on you.'' She dropped her apple core into her chamber pot and turned down the covers of her bed. ''Good night, Elsie. I'll see you tomorrow.''

''Good night, my dear.'' Elsie planted a kiss on her little sister's cheek and left the room.

The day after, Elsie was in the drawing room, arranging red and white glasshouse grown roses in an Indian vase when she heard the beginnings of a fearsome row upstairs. There was a loud thump, the muffled tinkle of glass breaking, and then Mrs MacGregor was screaming at her husband. Elsie had served in the town house for months, but had never heard her mistress's voice, and was taken aback by its shrillness. How could a woman rumoured to be so ill make such a commotion?

Elsie decided to leave the roses as they were. The drawing room was immaculate, and she had to get back to the servants' hall before her master and mistress came down for afternoon tea. But her flight to the hall was ill-timed, for as she crossed in front of the main staircase, Mr MacGregor came onto the landing. His greying hair stuck out wildly, and there was a smear of blood on his cheek where his wife had dug her nails into him in a fit of rage. Frightened, Elsie stopped in her tracks and stared at him for a heartbeat before remembering herself. She turned to the nearest wall to stand at attention until her master went away. But he didn't go, and Elsie was unable to escape to the safety and quiet of the servants' hall.

Upstairs, Mrs MacGregor continued to scream in fury and hurl objects around her chamber. Elsie was horrified, having never witnessed such a scene. Was her mistress insane? The woman screamed until she was hoarse, then let out a shaking moan which tore at Elsie's nerves. How she yearned to dash downstairs and alert Mrs Wallace to her mistress's unimaginable predicament. If they were friends, perhaps Mrs Wallace could calm her.

Elsie looked to the staircase to see if the tailor was still there, and to her utter dismay, he was. His mouth was set in a grimace, but he seemed to be little bothered by his wife's cries. His hand rested on the carven banister a yard or so above Elsie's head. He didn't look back at Elsie. It was as though he had forgotten she was there. Did she dare leave?

At the unmistakable sound of a window breaking, Elsie bolted. She passed Mr Oliver and Mrs Wallace on her way to the servants' hall. Their faces were very white as they rushed towards the staircase. A surge of nausea made Elsie stop just inside the corridor leading to the servants' hall; as she fought to keep her lunch down, she saw Mrs MacGregor join her husband on the landing, wearing nothing but a shift and wrapper, and claw at his face and clothing.

''You bastard!'' she moaned. ''You bastard!''

Mr MacGregor grabbed hold of her wrists and forced her to the ground. He would have struck her, had the butler and housekeeper not moved in to stop him.

Elsie found Lyddie in the servants' hall. She was waiting for the cook to return from the butcher's shop.

''What's going on up there?'' Lyddie asked alarmedly.

''Mrs MacGregor found out about the master and Carrie.''

''Are you sure that's it? How could she have found out?''

''Mrs Wallace must have told her. They're fighting terribly. You have no idea. I can't possibly remain in this house after what I've just seen; I'll put in my notice today.''

''Elsie, don't do that. I can see you're a bit shaken up, but – ''

''No, I won't serve a philanderer and a madwoman. Aye, her heart must be broken, but must she make such a scene?'' Elsie slumped into a chair. Her head was spinning. Lyddie brought her a cup of cider.

''You're being unkind, Elsie. Think of the pain that woman must be in. It's her you should feel sorry for, not yourself!''

Elsie stared at the floor, ashamed. ''I'll still put my notice in.''

Lyddie untied her apron and tossed it into the kitchen. ''I suppose I'll put mine in as well. We can look for another house to work in as soon as we've spent a little time with our family. So cheer up. Won't it be wonderful to see Joe again?''

''Must you go?'' Mrs Wallace asked as she handed Elsie an envelope containing her last wages and a reference letter for employment.

Elsie nodded, clutching her bundle of belongings. She couldn't bear to meet the housekeeper's eyes.

''I see. Well, what can I say? It hasn't been easy for you here, and though a servant's first place is never easy, few are wrought with as much dilemma as you've unfortunately been subject to. I'm sorry you're going. You were a good worker.'' She rose from her desk and followed Elsie from her chamber into the servants' hall, where Lyddie lingered, having just bid farewell to Madame Morel.

The sisters went out through the servants' door and were flagged by the fat brindled cat Elsie had seen the day she arrived, who yowled and rubbed himself against their skirts. They stooped for a moment to scratch him between the ears, then made their way into Lochgilphead, where they found a cab to take them home.

''Did you read your reference?'' Elsie asked her sister as the cab jolted over a stretch of brown winter moorland. The Burns farm was just visible at the horizon.

''Aye. Mrs Wallace described me as diligent and eager to please.''

''That was kind of her.''

''What did she write about you?''

Elsie giggled. ''Apparently, I am neat, considerate, trustworthy, quick-witted and competent.''

''My goodness. Did she really write all that?''

''See for yourself.''

''Mrs Wallace must want you to go far.''

Elsie leaned back into her seat with a content smile. ''Perhaps I will go far.''


End file.
